Forty-Three

It was in another black frame of mind that Roc woke up and realized that he’d slept until mid-afternoon. Not that it mattered, given that he was existing in a place that increasingly felt separate from the rest of the world and its concerns. Since seeing Bobbie Jean at the 7-Eleven, he’d plunged into an intense period of writing and recording with Stick and Eddie that began nightly around midnight and continued through the Elvis hours until they had nothing left. He ignored Uncle’s calls; in fact, he hadn’t bothered to recharge his phone. Eddie’s attempts to get them in touch had been rejected with some hostility; and Roc irrationally blamed Uncle for this hopeless state of isolation he was in. With Eddie, he’d taken responsibility for blowing his cover with Stick and given strict instructions that the all-night sessions were not to be mentioned to the anxious manager. The music that resulted was aggressive, at times angry, at others mournful, and like nothing he’d written before. With Stick, Roc was creating something new, a sound that neither would have come up with on his own. It had started with “Pale Fire” then “Here But I’m Gone,” but he had no sense of where it was going next, and that fit the shapeless nature of his life. For Stick, it was a door that had smashed open in his creative world; but he had no better idea of where it was leading. He was, after all, collaborating with a man presumed dead. His father’s nightly presence meant that Emma had to hear about the sessions when her boyfriend crawled with the dawn into the house on Blue Jay Way. She was asking fewer questions, but he could feel her heart aching, and knew how much she wanted to be there.

Across town, in Santa Monica, Bobbie was in her own dark place. As time passed, she was less and less sure about the phantom she had encountered in the Toluca Lake convenience store. But every time she convinced herself that it was her overactive imagination, she pictured the pack of shakes sitting on the counter as she checked out, and the confusion returned.

She forced herself to get out, do some phone work, but it was getting harder, and a client had caught her crying the other day. Luckily, that had turned him on furiously, and the call had been mercifully brief. She’d called her mama three times that week, and when the phone rang, Bobbie assumed it was her Alabama lifeline. “Hey there sweet pea, how’re y’all doin’? Just settin’ there, starin’ at my picher, I bet.”

Delray seemed to have vulnerability radar, and Bobbie found herself perversely glad to hear his damn fool voice. “Oh, hi Delray. I see your video enough these days, so I surely don’t need any photos of your hayseed self.”

“Well, what you need is a taste of your good old boy in the flesh, sugar plum. Now, before you get all uppity with me, I’m just invitin’ you to my show tonight at the Club Lingerie. And no, there won’t be any peelers there; it’s a rock joint at Sunset and Wilcox. Eight o’clock, your name’ll be on the list.”

Knowing that this could be a regrettable choice, Bobbie let the need for distraction win. “Well, you know, that would be real nice.”

“All right, honey bunny, we can do some real sharing tonight. I’ve been doin’ a hunk of work on myself, and I think you’ll find a whole ’nuther Delray.”

Marvelling at this bizarre mystic hick routine, Bobbie figured she could just ignore it, like so much else about Delray Jackson, and enjoy a night out. “All right, Mr. High on the Hog, I’ll see you later. Knock ’em dead.”

Later that evening, inside the velvet rope at the entrance to the club, Chad Sparx and the Beach Blast cameraman had set up shop.

“Coolio or what, here we are at the launch of the debut Delray Jackson disc at the Club Lingerie in Hollywood, where inside a wicked horde is grazing and getting totally boxed waiting for their hillbilly hero to show up. You might be asking yourself, like who is this complete Philbin who’s jacked the charts with his hit single, ‘Cowboy Dude’? Check it out, ’cause Beach Blast, as usual, has the dirt. Earlier today I spoke with Hector Castillo, the head valet at the Sunset Lagoon hotel, about a very sketchy encounter he had recently.”

Viewers saw a small, impeccably-dressed man with shiny black hair looking uncertainly into the camera. “So, Hector, dude, tell us about what happened last month in the parking garage.”

“I was parking a guest’s car in the underground when I saw Mr. Molotov talking to another man. This was not so unusual, because Mr. Molotov always liked to park his own car. I must say that he always remembered the valet team at Christmas too.”

“Cool. So was this other dude all rattly or what?”

“I could tell that something was wrong. Mr. Molotov was trying to back away from this man. That’s when I saw the knife. At first, a piece of meat came from the tip, but then when Mr. Molotov saw me, the other man passed the blade across Mr. Molotov’s shoulder and made him bleed.”

“Did you get a look at this ass clown?”

“Oh, sure, I had seen him before and asked him to leave the premises, but he didn’t seem to speak English.”

“So, Hector, for our viewers who are mondo curious, is this the dork in question?” A promo photo of Delray, identical to the one at the door to the club, flashed on the screen.

“For sure, Mr. Sparx, that’s him.”

The camera cut back to Chad outside the club, wearing a stupefied expression. “So, there it is, Beach Blast faithful, Roc Molotov got slit by one Delray Jackson shortly before he was cashed. It’s getting redonculous, folks.”

Inside the Club Lingerie, the room was filled to loud capacity by a unique assortment of teenage girls with ID, women who could be their mothers and in some cases were, and shit kickers from another planet eyeballing the talent. Some very unhappy ticketless yahoos were setting up an impromptu tailgate party in the parking lot, until the LAPD suggested otherwise.

The raucous crowd took it up another notch when Dwight Yoakam, in a gleaming white Stetson, screamed a long “Yeeehaw” into the mike at centre stage. “Welcome to the Club Lingerie. We got ourselves a real redneck revival tonight!” This brought a thunderous response from the room, and the stomping that followed almost drowned out the rest of the intro. “If you like your twang on the trashy side, you’re in the right place, folks. Featuring a rockin’ band some call The Cocktails, but for tonight only, known as ‘The Forty Ouncers,’ please say howdy to my good friend, Farcry, Alabama’s own Delraaayyy Jackson.”

Delray took the stage to a rollicking train groove, slapping hands with the front row faithful and yelling “Wee doggie” at the capacity crowd. “Ain’t we in hog heaven tonight?” he shouted. With a wellspring of unwarranted confidence, he instantly owned the room and blasted through the eight songs that he and The Cocktails had rehearsed in the preceding week. Just before the closing number, Delray grinned and started unbuttoning his blue sequined satin shirt. “Man, I’m sweatin’ like a whore in church up here.” Seemingly on cue, two forty-something frosted blondes jumped on stage to assist in the process. “Well, shitfire, if we ain’t got a couple of real lookers here.” The “lookers” were swarmed as they climbed down into the crowd, and the souvenir was torn into tiny shreds before security moved in.

Bobbie remained in the shadows at the back of the club, shaking her head in wonder at the silliness going on in front of the stage and avoiding Uncle, who was deep in conference with a young woman she finally recognized as the girl from the photo with Roc. “This here’s our last number,” a beaming Delray announced as Danny launched into the now well-worn beat of “Cowboy Dude.” “Any of y’all that aren’t plumb numb can get up and shine your belt buckles on the dance floor.” Suddenly Uncle was no longer there, and a morbid fascination drew Bobbie closer to Julie, who was left on her own. At the end of the song, Delray tossed his hat into the crowd and faux-surfed his way offstage, but the crowd wasn’t going to let it end there. He was joined by Dwight for a less than stirring version of the country chestnut “Big John,” but the finale was impossible to have foreseen. Marie, done up like Brigitte Bardot meets Dolly Parton, sashayed to centre stage and performed a sultry southern take on “Je t’aime,” with Delray interjecting the odd “Ah know,” to roaring approval from the Lingerie throng.

“Excuse me,” Bobbie said to Julie over the din of the club. “I’m Bobbie Jean Burnette. We haven’t met, but …”

“Hi, Bobbie, nice to meet you.” Julie extended her hand. “I’m Julie.”

Bobbie hesitated then plunged ahead. “This is kinda queer, I know, but I’m … I mean, I was … Roc Molotov’s girlfriend, and I know that you were … with him just before he …”

Julie’s eyes widened, and she grabbed Bobbie’s hands. “Oh, I’m so glad to meet you. Yes, I met Roc, but I didn’t know him really, or … it’s the picture, right?” Bobbie nodded, and Julie continued. “Nothing happened, Bobbie, I swear. Oh god, it was just a crazy night, and I was hanging out with my friend Marie,” she gestured toward the stage, “you know the ‘Ooo lala’ girl?” Again, Bobbie nodded. “And Uncle, who Marie’s been seeing, had hired this photographer; he said he wanted Roc to get in the gossip rags looking sexy, so he took these shots of us.” Bobbie tried in vain to not see the shot of Julie and Roc in her mind, much less the one of them dancing that had appeared in Rolling Stone the week he died.

Bobbie had to shout over the cheering crowd in Lingerie. “You mean y’all weren’t … seeing Roc, or …”

Julie cut her off. “No no, I’d only met him that night. I mean, he’s a great guy, or he was, but, no …” She paused and looked sympathetically at Bobbie. “He wrote ‘Swan Dive’ for you, didn’t he?”

Bobbie was trying to keep her emotions in check. She knew there was more to this story. Julie continued, “God, what a beautiful song. He must have really loved you, Bobbie. I’m so sorry if that hurt you. I’ve been called about that damn picture by people I haven’t talked to since grade school.”

“Well, there was another one, you know,” Bobbie said, sensing the truth of what Julie said. “It was sent to me the day before Roc disappeared. It arrived by courier in an envelope with no note, but I’m pretty sure I know the vermin who sent it. I just don’t know why.” Now it was Julie’s turn to listen and nod. “You were in some nightclub, and I thought for sure that … well, you know.”

“Bobbie Jean, I swear …” Julie began.

“Don’t worry, I believe you, Julie.” Bobbie paused, and both women looked toward the stage, where the “Je t’aime” moment was passing into history, and a gleaming bald head emerged from side stage to help Marie exit. His smarmy glow froze into something else as he looked across the heads of the crowd and fixed on Bobbie and Julie conferring by the back wall of the club.

“Hey, Bobbie,” said Julie, grabbing her arm, “you want to go to the party at Spaghettini?” She pulled an invitation featuring a drawing of a holster with sunglasses in it from her bag. “I think I can get us both in.”

Bobbie pulled an identical one from her jeans pocket and grinned. “No sweat. I hear tell the drinks are free.”

Bobbie offered Julie a drive to the restaurant, located just above the Sunset Plaza. “You actually dated Bubba back in Alabama?” Julie asked incredulously.

“I think ‘dated’ is glorifying things a bit,” Bobbie explained as they pulled up to the valet parking. “Delray goes more for the head in the toilet, panties around the ankles type.” Julie laughed at this image as Bobbie recounted the senior prom incident. “You gotta realize that, cute as he may be, this good old boy has the I.Q. of a milkshake.”

Waiting at the bar at Spaghettini, Bobbie found herself trustingly relating to Julie the 7-Eleven encounter when Delray leaned in from behind them. “You mean like that time Randy saw Elvis at the Piggly Wiggly?” He snorted with amusement as Bobbie and Julie exchanged conspiratorial looks and waved to an approaching group. Marie arrived wearing a chiffon outfit that looked like it was designed by a cake decorator and accompanied by a glowing Uncle and Justin.

Delray greeted them with bear hugs. “Yo, J-man, Stretch, how about your little toot sweet?” He air-kissed Marie and glad-handed his way around the room as they were escorted to a prime table. “Bad news, folks, they couldn’t get Krispy Kreme to cater, but strap on the feedbag anyhow.” Bobbie found herself seated between Delray and Uncle when the celebrity restaurateur/owner delivered a surfboard-shaped pizza with little pepperoni Stetsons on it. At the urging of a nearby table, Marie and Delray reprised their version of “Je t’aime” to table-banging accompaniment. Constant interruptions marked the meal; one of the hotties from promotion approached with an older woman.

“Hey, Delray, killer show! Would you sign my mom’s butt?”

Marie slid her hand under the table to distract a subdued Uncle, whose attention was threatening to wander, while the rest of the table avoided the spectacle. Delray found it necessary to inscribe his full name, along with the recipient’s and a lengthy message, to her giggling pleasure. Justin cozied up to a cool Julie but kept giving Marie knowing slit-eyed looks. Numerous Lone Stars into the evening, a somewhat mellowed Delray leaned over to Bobbie. “Hey there, punkin, are you feeling the joy like I am, ’cause this here’s turnin’ into a bit of an energy vortex for me. We could head back to my hotel and connect a little more deeply.”

“Actually, Delray, I think that’s about all she wrote for me, so thanks for everything. You got lots of people dyin’ to connect with y’all here.”

“Ah hell, Bobbie Jean, don’t get all skittish on me. I know we had some issues, but that don’t mean we can’t get neckid and do a little purging of our love toxins together. We could order up a lemon icebox pie and see what happens.” Delray leered at her, and Bobbie caught Julie’s bemused look.

As Delray clutched her sleeve, she bumped her elbow into his latest Lone Star, sending it flowing onto his lap. He jumped up and teetered dangerously, sending the remains of his pizza onto Justin’s shirt. A look of disgust was the record exec’s only response while Delray tried to clean it off with his beer-soaked napkin. As Bobbie saw her exit opportunity, Julie slipped her a phone number, and hasty goodnights were exchanged.