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I waited twenty minutes before I called Ruben Stafford. True to his word, though, Ricky had given him a heads up and Ruben knew who I was. He agreed to meet me at a coffee shop ten minutes from the taco shop.
I found him stretched out in a chair by the door, a tall cardboard tumbler already on the table in front of him. He had dark, wavy hair that hung nearly to his shoulders and a beard that was maybe three days old. He was in jeans, a gray hooded sweatshirt and flip-flops. His chin was tucked to his chest and his hands were shoved inside the front pocket of his sweatshirt.
He looked up when I approached the table. “Are you...sorry, I don't remember your name.”
“Joe Tyler,” I said, offering my hand. “And you're Ruben, I take it?”
He shook my hand. “Yeah. How'd you know?”
I looked around the empty shop, save for the employees. “Lucky guess.”
He looked around, then nodded sheepishly. “Yeah. Duh.”
“Okay if I sit?”
He nodded.
I sat down across from him. “Ricky tell you what I'm doing?”
He reached for the coffee and pushed the hair out of his face with the other. “Yeah, think so. You found Patrick?”
I told him that I had and ran through the same stuff I'd gone over with Ricky. I asked him some of the basics about the band and they lined up with what Ricky told me. Patrick was the leader. They were all cool with that. Music was everything to Patrick.
Ruben leaned forward on his elbows. “I can't believe he's dead. It's just so...I don't know.”
“I'm sorry,” I said.
“Me, too,” he said, staring at his coffee.
“Was he having trouble? In any way? Anything that was off with him that you saw?” I asked. Maybe he would be more forthcoming than Ricky.
He reached for the coffee and took off the lid. “I honestly hadn't seen him that much lately. He was writing like crazy.”
“So he was out in the garage studio?”
He nodded and blew across the top of the coffee. “Yeah. We left him alone out there. He'd come in sometimes to ask us about a line or maybe grab some food or something. But other than that, he was out there working. We hadn't even rehearsed in forever.”
“Was that normal? For him to just disappear like that?”
He sipped at the coffee. “Yeah. It wasn't normal for us not to rehearse, though. We liked to play for a bunch of reasons. So even when he was working on new stuff, we'd still play.” He paused. “But we hadn't played in a couple of weeks and that was weird.”
“Did you guys talk to him about that?”
He shook his head. “No. Patrick was a pretty chill guy most of the time, but when he was in one of his writing grooves, we left him alone. We didn't try to talk to him or do anything that might interrupt whatever he was working on.”
That wasn't by any means abnormal. There were plenty of artists who needed uninterrupted time to work on their projects. The fact that Patrick was like that spoke to his dedication, I thought.
“When was the last time you spoke to him?” I asked.
Ruben thought for a moment. “Maybe three days ago? Can't remember exactly. Did Ricky tell you about our landlord?”
“I helped him move some of your stuff out.”
“Oh, right,” he said, running the hand through his hair again. “So, yeah, we got the notice that he wanted us out. I went to tell Patrick. He was in the studio or whatever you wanna call it. I told him.”
“What was his reaction?”
“He just sort of laughed,” Ruben said. “He laughed, shook his head, and just kept playing his guitar.” He took a drink from the coffee. “I asked him if he heard me and he said he did. He said don't worry about it. And I was like, how am I not supposed to worry about this? We need a place to fucking live.”
“What did he say to that?”
“Just told me it'd be cool,” Ruben said. “We'd figure something out.”
I leaned back in the chair and looked around the empty shop. I wasn't hearing anything that indicated Patrick was showing any outward signs of being under pressure. I was hoping they could tell me that he was overwhelmed and then I could take that back to Mike, which might make the suicide easier to understand.
But I wasn't getting that impression.
“Okay, let me ask you this,” I said. “Were you guys okay as a band?”
“We're really good,” Ruben said. “I mean, I'm not trying to be arrogant, but we're good.”
“Not what I mean,” I said, clarifying. “How were you guys getting along? Were things cool? What was the dynamic?”
He shifted in the chair and stared at the coffee for a long minute.
It was the same vibe I'd gotten from Ricky.
I waited.
“No,” Ruben finally said. “Not really.”
“What was wrong?”
He took a sip from the coffee, then made a face at it, like it tasted bad. He set the cup down. “We're poor as fuck, alright? And I don't mean, like, we've only got a couple hundred bucks or anything like that. I mean, we were down to, like, eight bucks. We were behind on everything. Our credit cards are all maxed.” He nodded at the coffee. “I had to scrounge up change in my car just for that.”
“Should've waited for me,” I told him. “I would've bought.”
He shrugged. “It's fine. I mean, I've been poor for forever, so it's not like it's new. It's stressful for sure, but I'm used to it. And not like the other guys are rich or anything. But I think it was just the collective stress of none of us having any cash that was starting to wear on us.”
“Understandable,” I said. “Were you guys doing anything to try and change that? I don't mean that to sound dumb, but were you guys looking to set up gigs? Or get jobs during the day? Again, I'm not trying to sound ignorant, but I'd assume at some point you would've had to do something.”
He picked up the wooden stir stick next to his coffee and tapped it lightly against the table. “That's what I'm doing now. I was at my dad's place when you called. I told him about what happened and he...” He made a sour face. “He's not really into the band thing. I mean, he's cool if we play and stuff, but he doesn't think we should be making it our job or whatever. He runs a house remodeling business and he's been trying to get me to work for him for forever. Anyway, I went home last night after we finished talking to the police, told him what happened, and the first thing he said was I could start working for him today if I wanted.” He smiled, and it was filled with sadness. “And I get it. He's trying to be helpful in his way. That's cool. But it just sort of sucks that this is where I'm at. I'm having go back to my dad for a job the day after my friend dies.” He shook his head and looked away, but not before I saw the tears forming in the corner of his eyes.
“I'm sorry,” I said. “That really does suck. On all fronts.”
“Yeah,” he said, wiping at his eyes with his forearm. “It does.”
I gave him a minute to compose himself.
“Was Patrick worried about it?” I asked. “About the money? Or lack thereof?”
Ruben sighed and leaned back in the chair. “I don't know, man. Yeah, I'm sure he was. In his own way. But that's the thing. He never showed us that kind of stuff. If shit was bothering him, he didn't tell us. He just said 'we'll figure it out.' So it was hard to tell with him.” His eyes moved away from mine. “Sometimes he was just really fucking hard to talk to. He and David went at it a lot over stuff like that.”
David was the only member I had yet to talk to.
“Money, you mean?” I asked.
“Everything,” he answered. “He and David were tight, but David wasn't afraid to question him or challenge him. And I don't mean in a bad way. But David's kinda Type A, you know? He needs a plan. He needs organization.” He shook his head. “And, man, that was not Patrick's strong suit.”
I nodded. “Sure. Okay. One last thing and I'll let you go. Did you see any signs that Patrick was using drugs again?”
Ruben sighed again and thought for quite some time. He shifted in his chair several times, like he couldn't get comfortable. “The police asked me the same thing last night. I don't know. I think maybe he was.”
“Why's that?”
“Because I've seen him before,” he said. “When he was using. And it was bad. He couldn't focus. He didn't eat. You could just tell. Wasn't him. It's like a ghost of him. Kind of hard to explain.” He paused. “So, he wasn't totally like that. I wouldn't say that. But I don't know. I just sort of got the feeling that was the road he was heading down. Again.”
“You said he’d been holed up in the garage, though, working on music,” I reminded him. “The last time you saw him was three days ago, right?”
He frowned. “Well, yeah. So I hadn't seen him a ton. But that was kind of part of it. He disappears. So I guess in my head I at least wondered if that's what was going on.”
I thought about this. He and Ricky were a bit at odds in terms of what they thought they were seeing in Patrick. I trusted that the people who spent the most time with him would've recognized it if he'd taken a step backward. One was saying he hadn't and one was saying he might've. Not the most unusual thing that they'd had different perceptions.
But it did make his death and the way I'd found him even more confusing.