The coolness of the Sunset Lagoon parking garage was mighty welcoming to Delray Jackson after his walk from Uncle’s office on Wilshire Boulevard. His permanent farmer’s tan was deepening, his hands, face, and neck starting to turn a deep chestnut shade after a couple of days of walking around L.A. and Santa Monica. He was glad that he’d dyed his buzz cut blonde before leaving Farcry. Originally, he’d hoped it would help convince Bobbie that he was a real contemporary guy now, not just some local dickweed like his buddies back home, but now he felt it would also ensure that he wouldn’t be taken for a spade, what with the way his skin was getting dark. Delray was reciting the lyrics to “Cowboy Dude” as he dug around in the kitchen dumpster for remnants of something that once walked. He settled for some kind of grilled chicken, wiping off the gooey vegetable matter stuck to its underside. He hated the things they did to bread out here, putting little seeds on it and whatnot, but all in all, the pickings had been downright generous. If this is what they left behind here, think of what they must be putting away in those hundred-dollar hotel rooms upstairs.
That bald weirdo had turned out to be pretty accommodating. He’d asked for Delray’s number, which had created a rough patch in the conversation, but had suggested they cut a vocal next week on this song after things chilled a bit with his other projects, whatever the hell that meant. Anyway, he’d given Delray a business card and a couple of cold ones for the road. Most importantly, though, he’d given Delray something he didn’t know he had parted with, the phone number and address of Roc Molotov’s hotel in Hollywood. And now, as clear as Delray was about his purpose in coming to California, he had no idea of what he would do or say when he finally came face to face with Mr. Roc Molotov, Mr. Big Fucking Rock Star.
Delray was just about to cruise for some dessert when he heard footsteps approaching. In the shadows of the parking garage, it didn’t look like the valet parking guy he’d seen the last few times picking up a Beemer or Land Rover. Not realizing that Roc shunned valet parking, unlike most guests, Delray took his good fortune for granted as he became aware that he’d spotted his prey in the flesh. He watched silently from the side of the dumpster and thought that Roc looked a lot skinnier in person, kind of pathetic if you got right down to it. He pulled his Alabama toothpick out of his jeans and stepped into Roc’s path just as he reached his Lexus. Seeing the knife, but not noticing the hunk of chicken on the tip blunting Delray’s menace, Roc froze, keys in hand.
“Roc Molotov,” Delray announced as sternly as he could manage.
Roc had never heard anyone pronounce his name like it rhymed with locomotive, but he simply replied, “Yes?” trying to keep his terror of celebrity violence under control and maintain the ability to reason his way out of this nightmare.
Delray leaned closer to Roc’s trembling face and flashed the blade dramatically, unwittingly flicking the morsel of chicken breast past Roc’s ear. This was all it took to temporarily derail Delray, and he sputtered, “Chicken, are you?”
Roc gathered his thoughts. “What can I do for you? I’ve got cash, a watch, that’s about it. Here, take the car.” He offered the keys.
“I don’t want but what’s mine to begin with,” Delray hissed. He tried to think of something cool to fill the momentary silence, but nothing sprang to mind, so he went straight to the point. “Bobbie Jean Burnette, that’s what I’m here for.”
Roc was speechless, but a distant notion tugged at him. Bobbie had told him about some of the guys she had dated in Alabama, in particular one peckerwood, as she referred to him. The name escaped him, but the description of the prom date who had passed out in his own truck before they made it to the dance suited the hillbilly standing in front of him now.
“If you think a little pussy boy like you’s gonna come along and take her from me, I’ma have to convince you otherwise.” The hick added something he thought Jack might have said in one of his cooler movies, “Do I make myself perfectly clear, little man?” but it didn’t come out right.
Roc rapidly took stock of the situation and found himself opening his palms Uncle-style. “Man, you’ve got this all wrong.” Now he was starting to sound like he was reciting film dialogue. Maybe Cagney or Edward G. “I make no claim on Bobbie. Can I go now?”
Roc started to ease toward his car, but Delray wasn’t going to let his glorious moment of complete intimidation pass so quickly. “What do you mean by that, fuckwad? You messin’ with me, I’ll slit your little carcass like roadkill.”
Roc was starting to feel like this was going to end with threats, but not taking any chances, he hastened to add, a little vehemently, “No man, I’m serious, I haven’t got the slightest interest in Bobbie. She’s all yours.”
An uncertain look appeared on Delray Jackson’s face, and he unthinkingly licked the edge of his knife. “You sayin’ she ain’t worthy of a little dipshit like you? You should be thankin’ your lucky stars you can breathe the same air as Bobbie Jean Burnette.”
Roc was wondering what Bubba here would say if he’d heard the sounds bouncing around his beloved’s car the other night, when they both noticed an approaching vehicle. Roc gave a jaunty wave to Hector, the valet parker, but Delray panicked, and in trying to conceal the knife, accidentally sliced through Roc’s shirt, drawing blood. Not noticing his injury, Roc got into his car as quickly as possible and eased out of the garage, stomach trembling and hands shaking as Delray beat a hasty retreat to the dumpster, bloody knife in hand.