Thirty

“Beach Blast has been following the Molotov mystery from day one, as you’re, like, totally aware. In new developments, we’ve learned that a turquoise bracelet, identical to the one Roc was wearing in this photo from the ’92 ‘Magic and Mayhem’ European tour, washed up on Zuma Beach. Check it out, right?”

How in God’s name did that get there? Roc puzzled. Uncle — of course — he’d given the bracelet to Uncle, who’d wanted it to impress some hippie chick working the merch table.

“So this morning I was trying to scope the chopper that Roc jumped from, right, so I went down to La Jolla, where the surf was crankin’, by the way … and we were shooting through this mondo privacy gate when this assmunch starts going ballistic at the camera. ’Course, when he spots yours truly and the Beach Blast mike, he chills right out, so I asked him some questions.”

Roc sat up when he saw Eddie’s brother, Nick, and the helicopter in the background.

“Whoa, bitchin’ chopper dude!” Nick’s smile looked strained as the mike was thrust between the bars of the gate. “Is that a Gulfstream?”

“No, it’s a Twin Otter … made by DeHavilland. They’re used a lot for skydiving.”

“Righteous! Chad Sparx here from Beach Blast. You’re the dude who flew the Roc Molotov ultimate flight, right?” Nick nodded soberly as Chad continued. “So was Roc wearing a turquoise bracelet that day or what?”

“I, uh, didn’t notice Mr. Molotov’s jewellery that morning I’m afraid, why?”

“One of our regular beach bunnies found it, and I recognized it from my research.” Nick appeared momentarily startled. “So, we were waiting on the beach when Roc went aerial and got all rag dolled. Like what happened, man?”

Nick paused before answering, “Well, it was initially pretty straightforward from my point of view. We were flying IFR, that’s …”

“You mean Instrument Flight Rules? For flying without seeing where you’re going, right?” Chad’s permanently stunned expression belied the directness of his line of questioning.

“That’s … that’s right, Chad. Let me be clear, we met the minimums for a shallow IFR approach. We didn’t know anything had gone wrong until I got radioed just as I was landing back here.”

“Like, do you buy the coastally trapped wind reversal theory of how he got cashed, dude? Sounds bogus to me.”

“That’s not for me to say.” Nick’s gaze turned distant. “It’s a tragedy, I know that much.”

“For sure, man. Thanks.” Nick smiled and was turning away when Chad Columbo’d him. “Oh, one last question, bro … did you know Roc Molotov couldn’t swim?”

Nick looked like he’d swallowed a cockroach. “No, I wasn’t aware of that. Listen, I’ve got to check my flux capacitor, all right?”

“Solid! Just like in Back to the Future. Cool.”

As Chad signed off and intro’d the “Swan Dive” video, Roc felt he could live without seeing it one more time and walked out onto the deck. The interview had left him uneasy. He hadn’t thought much about the possible repercussions of this deceit being uncovered, but it was out of his hands. The bracelet ruse reminded Roc of Uncle’s ease with deception. He’d been glad of this capacity in the past, why not now? More than ever Roc felt like Uncle was operating in two versions of the same reality.

Closing his eyes, he inhaled the sweet smell of an orange tree; it seemed to take the edge off his hermetic world. He knew he was getting restless — it was inevitable, Uncle had warned him, and Eddie tried to be resourceful in the diversions department, arriving back daily with menus from the city’s best restaurants, an archery set, a candle-making kit, old Justice League of America comics, and in an unthinking moment, a remote controlled helicopter.

Roc’s mind wandered once again to the upcoming tribute concert, and his curiosity spiked. Uncle had listened to his suggestions for performers and promised to leave certain songs off the list of possible choices. He had respectfully noted Roc’s concerns over staging, visuals, and keys for the songs, but refused to clear the speeches beforehand, claiming impracticality. “You can’t write your own eulogy, my friend,” Uncle had said. It was hard to disagree, but it prompted a series of queasy images of rants and tributes and overwrought versions of his songs by people swaying and holding hands.

He wandered back inside and watched the news segment about The Cocktails plagiarism settlement, shaking his head then turning the sound off. That never would have happened when they were together, Roc thought, realizing how long ago that seemed. He was refining a riff, leaning over the guitar, when he looked up and saw something startling on the screen — his mother with an MTV mike in hand, standing outside the family home in Duluth. He quickly hit the mute switch.

“… used to play catch on the lawn right here.” She gestured from the weed-infested patch that fronted their home to the drive on her right and the garage door. “He broke that window with a slap shot one time. He wanted to play for the Huskies when he grew up, but once he got that guitar ...”

Roc got up and hovered over the television, staring in shock. As the camera panned past a group of curious kids and neighbours behind a rope, she continued. He noticed she was wearing her ever-present bunny slippers.

“C’mon in and I’ll show you his bedroom. We never moved a thing, you know.” Knowing this to be a blatant untruth, Roc clamped his hands on his head in disbelief. His mother passed through the living room, which must have been seriously redecorated in recent days. In place of the old tweed sofa was a tacky tan-coloured leather sectional that looked like it had just arrived from the IKEA showroom. “Yup, right behind that couch, him and his little brother would do skits for the family at Easter and Thanksgiving. He was just adorable in that turkey get-up with the paper feathers.” Afraid to blink in the face of this travesty, Roc stood numbly, inches from the screen. “I often thought about those times when I’d see him in the music videos. Hideos, we call them around here. Hah hah!” she cackled. The camera followed Roc’s mother down the hallway of the family home, and he found himself craning as if he could see outside the frame to locate things remembered from his past, even as that past was being skewered for any curious viewer with a remote in hand.

“What the fuck?” he blurted at the screen as the camera found his room, now done up like it was when he was six years old, or how his mother would want to imagine it. There were cowboy curtains, model sports cars, and plastic monsters everywhere and on the bed, a red toy ukulele. It was all so K-Mart Graceland, he couldn’t absorb what he was seeing. He was momentarily distracted by the sound of a motorcycle revving down beside the building, followed by lowered voices, but his attention was drawn back to the horror on the screen.

“And here’s the words to my little guy’s first song.” His mom got weepy as she held out a crumpled sheet of three-ring paper toward the camera. He could just make out the title, “Sequoia Sunset.” Where the hell had she found that? “Of course, that was just the beginning,” she said, regaining her composure on cue, “and by the way, we’ve got a numbered limited edition of the ‘Sequoia Sunset’ lyrics which you’ll be able to order at the end of this program.” Roc felt his stomach turn over. “Along with some rare guitar picks, also numbered.” I never used one then, he thought in disgust. “Now, we can’t make it to the concert in Los Angeles, but we’re going to have our own hometown candlelight vigil over by the Lift Bridge, and Roc, honey, if you’re out there somewhere, we miss you.” She artfully wiped an imaginary tear from her eye and perked up as the camera pulled back to reveal a giant “Roc Molotov Home” sign behind her. He watched his mom wave to the departing camera and yell “Go Huskies!” before the screen began displaying the parade of merchandise available through MinnieMall Enterprises.

Teeth clenched, Roc had just picked up his cellphone to call Uncle when he heard music blasting from the studio below, and he froze, phone in hand.

The studio didn’t look at all like the high-tech wonderland that Emma expected a musicians’ sandbox to be, but Stick had prepared her for the fact that this place was pre-digital, pre-midi, pre-virtual everything. In fact, it looked more like a beach shack with instruments and equipment, housed in a couple of reasonably small wood-panelled rooms. There were framed posters of Roc Molotov and The Cocktails on most walls, and Emma fought to subdue her curiosity during Stick’s tour.

“So the control room is through that glass, and that’s where the engineer sits, and in here, the musicians and singers do their thing. It actually kinda looks like it did when I was a kid hanging out here, with the mikes set up and all the candles and guitars and stuff.”

“And what are these little walls for?” Emma gestured toward dividers of various sizes around the room.

“Oh, those are baffles for isolating the musicians so there’s not too much bleed between the tracks when they’re recording.” He pointed out a drum kit tucked into the corner of the room, surrounded by baffles and screens. “That’s where I sit when I’m recording. A lot of studios have a separate drum booth, but my dad likes all the players in the same room, for the ‘vibe,’ as he calls it.” He did a little yoga hand position, and they both laughed. “C’mon, I’ll play you some of our stuff.”

They passed through the double doors into the control room, where Stick dimmed the lights and pulled a disc from a shelf. “I don’t know what’s up with the repairs. Doesn’t look like anything’s been done; ’course that shouldn’t surprise me. But it’s weird, everything’s still on.” He loaded the disc and hit “play” as he positioned Emma in the oversized engineer’s chair midway between the speakers. She tucked her feet underneath her and closed her eyes.

The same sound that she’d heard at the club rolled out of the speakers, but instead of sounding like droning and crashing, it took on a stark beauty as the music rose and fell. The lyrics were buried in the mix of guitars and drums, making it hard to tell what was being said, and the songs evoked a similar feeling as they went by; but at the end, Emma sat very still, feeling massaged by the sound. She didn’t speak for a while, not wanting the spell to break. Finally, she turned the chair around and looked at Stick. “Amazing. Your music is beautiful.”

“Thanks. I’m glad you like it. My dad says you can’t hear the vocals, but I kinda like it that way. It’s the Maureen’s Ankle sound.”

“I wouldn’t change a thing.” Emma smiled teasingly. “It’s like a meditation to music or something. Does the singer write the songs?”

“No, I do. Most people think drummers don’t write, ’cause we bang on things and don’t play chords, but as you might have noticed, there aren’t too many chords involved.” He grinned shyly at Emma. “You want to go?”

“In a minute. The ‘vibe’ in here is pretty cool,” she said, looking around at the old tape machines and the sprawling console with its tiny coloured lights in rows in front of her. Easing off the engineer’s chair, she peered at the room through the glass. “So, how do they communicate with the musicians?”

“Like this,” he replied, hitting the talkback button. “Hey, all you cats and kittens, it’s the Stickman on K-ED radio, hoping you got a smooth groove goin’ on tonight.” They laughed at his suave DJ voice, so incongruous with his personality. “That’s my dad’s thing. He always cues the band like he’s on the radio. Kind of a senior fantasy, I guess.”

“It’s working for me.” Emma grinned. “Can I go back in the studio?”

“Sure,” Stick replied and held the door for her.

She walked over to where an empty chair sat in the centre of the room, a couple of mikes placed in front of it. There were candles partly melted down arranged on a small table with a half-empty water glass; a music stand with some lyrics sat nearby. “So, when Roc Molotov recorded in here, where would he sit?” She turned back to Stick.

“Well, it’s been a while ago now, but probably right about there, actually. I mean, I was a kid and usually more interested in what the drummer was doing. Once I fell asleep inside the bass drum and woke up screaming when Danny gave it a giant kick. They all thought it was hilarious, but I didn’t ever do that again. Still wanted to be a drummer, though.”

Emma, not really listening to Stick’s anecdote, picked up the lyrics and read them to herself before putting them carefully back onto the stand. She pushed a finger into the soft wax of one of the candles. “What was he like?” Her voice had descended to almost a whisper.

Regarding her quizzically, Stick replied, “Roc? He was cool. He didn’t try too hard like most people do with kids.” He could see that he had her complete attention. “I mean, he never would have done that thing with the kick drum, you know.” He paused, noticing that she wasn’t looking at him. “Quiet I guess, but funny in a quirky way. A lot of the time he was absorbed in his writing, even when the rest of them were partying madly around him. It was like he just tuned them out or something. Frankie and Barry used to want to borrow me to go to the park to pick up chicks, but like, not Roc.” He walked awkwardly around the mikes so he could see her face, and as she turned to look at him, he saw tears on her cheeks. “What is it? Emma?”

She paused a long time, trying to find her voice. “He was my dad.”

“Roc? Roc Molotov? Wow. Cool.” Stick took her hand and led Emma toward the exit door. “Let’s go, okay? Tell me all about it later.”

Once the panic had subsided, Roc brought his breath under control and considered what to do. Eddie had taken his annual drive to Twenty-Nine Palms to chill by the pool at the motel and soak up some desert air, having topped up all of Roc’s supplies before he left. So what was going on? Burglars? Not unless they had a key and the security code. He fiddled with Eddie’s tiny chrome inter-cam, but never having used it was able only to get a rotating image of various locations in and around the building, with no sound. For one maddening instant, he could make out two figures in the control room, but just when one of them passed close enough to be seen, her hair fell in her face and the screen jumped to the kitchen. The feeling of being trapped gradually gave way to a curiosity about what he was hearing. He couldn’t make out the vocals through the floor, but the band had a kind of noisy majesty to it. Almost like a meditation to music, he thought when it ended about twenty-five minutes after it started. Then he heard nothing. He could briefly make out a young girl sitting in his chair in the studio, but then someone else’s back stepped in front of the camera. After trying to reach Uncle for a while, he heard the roar of a motorbike in the alley and saw that the alarm had been reset.