How to Kill a Rock Star (44 page)

Levenduski spent sixty seconds browsing the report.

“Okay,” he said. “Hit me.”

To make my visit seem legitimate, I questioned the officer on the details of the night. Then I got to the real reason I’d come. “The eyewitness.”

Levenduski looked at his notes. “Lucien.” He made the name sound Chinese, pronouncing it “Lucy-In.”

“I think that’s
Loo-shen
,” I corrected. “Tel me what you remember about Mr. Lucien’s appearance. Anything at al .” Levenduski had a finger stuck inside his front belt loop.

“The guy had a beard. A thick one, like a lumberjack.” I suppressed my overwhelming disappointment upon hearing this. Paul had a better chance of sprouting wings than he had of growing a lumberjack’s beard, never mind that I’d seen him hours before and he’d been clean-shaven. But, I assured myself, a beard can be faked. It was a long shot— asinine even—yet completely within the workings of Paul’s skewed mind.

“Was he tal or short?” I asked.

“Don’t real y recal .”

“Wel , what was his build like?”

“Hard to say. He had a sweater on. But I’d guess he was on the thin side.”

“What kind of sweater?”

Levenduski laughed like he thought my questions were the stupidest he’d ever heard. “Something dark.” Paul had been wearing his black hooded sweatshirt when I’d found him on Michael’s doorstep.

“Did he have a prominent nose?”

“
Miss
, I had better things to do than take notes on the guy’s nose.”

“Wel , what about his hair? Was it dark and stringy? Sort of in his face?”

Levenduski had the tip of a bal point pen in his mouth.

39He was biting down on it, stretching his lips so that al his teeth were showing. He looked like a hungry Irish Setter.

“No. This I
do
remember.” He pointed the pen at me. “The guy was completely bald. Not a speck of hair on his head.

Honest to God, I remember thinking, This poor joker’s got al that hair on his face but none on his noggin.” Levenduski laughed. “Yeah, I remember the guy’s head just like I seen him yesterday. Looked like a freakin’ cue bal .” My initial reaction was more letdown. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Wil Lucien and Paul Hudson were not one in the same.

My memories of that night were vague. Not moving pictures, more like photographs. I flipped through the snapshots in my mind: Paul on the porch, Paul sliding my hand under his shirt, Paul above me on the bed, Paul grabbing my arm when I tried to take that stupid orange hat off of his head.

“What’s the matter, you get a bad haircut?” I’d joked.

“Something like that,” he’d said.

I crashed through Michael and Vera’s front door ready to report my discovery, certain I was going to convince my brother and astound Vera at the same time.

Michael was sitting on the couch with a TV tray in front of him, Fender resting at his feet. Vera was halfway between the kitchen and the main room carrying a wooden salad bowl.

“Michael, I—” were the only words I got out before my brother stood up and swooped down on me like a vulture.

“Outside,” he said, dragging me in the direction of the door.

Vera looked curious, and Michael said, “It’s about your Christmas present.”

At the end of the block, Michael stopped in front of a vacant basketbal court. “Are you out of your
mind
?” he yel ed, and then turned his back to me, gripping the chain-link fence
and breathing heavily. His head was pressed so hard into the metal I thought he was going to have a fence pattern on his forehead when he turned around.

“I just came from the police station,” I said.“You’re not going to believe this, but the officer on duty the night Paul—”

“Jesus, Eliza!” Michael spun to face me. There was no pattern on his head, only redness. His whole body seemed shaky. “You didn’t tel the police about your little
theory
, did you?”

“I didn’t tel them anything, I was asking—”

“Who else
have
you told?”

“No one. Stop yel ing at me. Wil Lucien was bald.”

“
What
?”

“And so was Paul that night. At least I’m pretty sure he was. He wouldn’t take off his hat, not even during sex.” Michael rol ed his eyes and started frantical y pacing the fence line.

“I found this site on the Internet,” I said, “it’s for lawyers and companies that have to check up on people, I guess.

Anyway, for $39.99 you can find out almost anything about a person if you have their name and date of birth.” Michael ceased moving. “
And
?”

“It takes twenty-four hours. I’l have Wil Lucien’s vital stats by noon tomorrow. And if it just so happens Wil Lucien was born in Pittsburgh in 1972, is there a chance you might start to believe me?”

I watched Michael’s face.

That’s when I saw it. And my mouth fel open.

“What?” Michael said nervously.

The whole time I’d been waiting for a reaction—a flinch, a nod, one of his Abe Lincoln scowls—anything that suggested my brother was starting to take me seriously. Now I saw something else.

His was not the face of a man trying to figure out the
39truth. His was the face of a man who knew the truth, but was torn by whether or not to expose it.

“
Damn you
…” I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or kick his kneecaps in, but I settled on a mixture of the first two options. “You’ve known al along, haven’t you?” He leaned his body backward, resting al his weight against the fence so that it curved and flexed behind him.

“Michael, this is my
life
! You have to
tell
me!”

“Jesus Christ, it’s
my
life too, Eliza!” He rubbed his face and tried to catch his breath. “Please, just sit tight for another day or two. And stop asking questions.
Can you do that
please
?”

I didn’t want to agitate Michael any more than I already had, but I also thought the world might end if I didn’t make one more appeal.

“I swear over my life I won’t ask to see him or talk to him, if that’s what he wants. I won’t ask where or how or why, and I won’t tel a soul. I just need to know. I need to hear you say it. Is he alive?”

Michael glanced around, then picked up a rock and skipped it violently down the sidewalk.

“No more police,” he said.

I made an x over my heart, and then the tears fel harder, because I knew what Michael was going to say.

“Yes,” Michael sighed. “He’s alive.”

The street lamps in Tompkins Square Park were like electric candles. They gave off heat, Michael was sure they did, because it was twenty-seven degrees outside, but as long as he and Vera remained within the light’s radius they could unbutton their coats and stil be comfortable.

Michael and Paul had talked that morning. At lunchtime, Michael had cal ed Eliza and told her to meet him at the fountain at eight.

“Eight?” she’d whined. “That’s hours away. Can’t we meet now?”

“I have some things I need to take care of first.” At 7:49, with Vera at his side, Michael spotted Eliza walking down Ninth Street at a swift, urban pace emblem-atic of Manhattanites.

Eliza looked stunned by Vera’s presence. Her eyes went to Michael, then to her sister-in-law. “
You know too
?”

“Not until today, I didn’t.”

“Sit,” Michael told Eliza, nodding at a bench. He could tel she was nervous, she was biting her cheeks. “First of al , I want you to know I had no hand in the decision-making that led to the deal I’m about to offer you.”

“
Deal
?” She eyed Vera, who was fidgeting beside Michael, twisting her hands as if she were wringing out a dishrag.

“What does he mean
deal
?”

“Don’t look at me,” Vera said. “I’m stil in shock. It’s not
39everyday someone you know is resurrected.” Michael pul ed a standard-sized white envelope out of his breast pocket. Eliza took it and studied her name typed across the front.

The envelope wasn’t sealed. She lifted the flap and removed the packet of papers. The next few moments passed in formidable silence, and Michael and Vera watched Eliza’s face contort like dough being stretched in al directions as the proviso of the “deal” revealed itself to her.

She was holding a nudge. A dare. Choice in the form of an airline ticket made out in her name for a flight that would be departing JFK right after the New Year.

There was a printed itinerary with the ticket, as wel as a voucher for a discount on a car rental the airline must have thrown in.

“Remember, don’t shoot the messenger,” Michael said.

Eliza remained silent until she unfolded the itinerary.

“
Over water
?” she shrieked. “He expects me to fly
over water
?” Michael flipped the page to where it listed the equipment. “Look, a 767-400.

Practical y brand new—I checked before I booked it. Oh, and he wanted me to point out you’l be sitting in first class, so you know how much he was wil ing to spend on you.”

“I have an idea…” Her voice was dry and sputtering. “I could take a train to Boston…somewhere on the coast…catch one of those ocean liners and…” Michael shook his head. “He figured you’d try that. He said, and I quote:‘Tel her no dice unless she gets her ass on the plane.’”

“Those were his exact words? He actual y said
ass
and
dice
?”

Vera pointed to the envelope.“I think you missed something.” Eliza looked in and found a smal scrap of paper that read: If you want me you’re going to have to come and get me.

“Bastard.”

coda

Art & Love:

The Only Things

That Can Bring

a Person Back

to Life

I entered JFK’s Central Terminal with a scarf tied around my head, covering my eyes, completely obscuring my vision.

Michael carried my bags; Vera held my hand.

I was a soldier being led to the firing squad.

Joan of Arc on her way to the barbeque.

“Eliza,” Vera said. “People are staring.”

“I don’t care. Pretend I’m blind.”

“If you were blind, you wouldn’t need the scarf.” Vera guided me al the way to the ticket counter, where I listened as Michael gave my name and flight number to the chipper lady behind the desk who sounded so much like Glinda the Good Witch, I imagined the woman wearing a pink dress made of tul e and a big golden crown on her head.

It helped.

“May I have a window seat?” I held my passport out until Glinda took it. “I know it’s safer to sit in the aisle, but I’m going to need a view of the outside world at al times.” Glinda told me I was in luck. There was one window seat left in first class. And for a brief second I thought I felt brave.

Glinda gave my boarding pass to Michael. “They’l begin boarding in about forty-five minutes,” she said. “But before I let her go, I’m going to need to see her face.”

“Eliza,” Michael said.

I lifted the blindfold a smidgen, al owing Glinda to ver-ify that I was indeed the girl in the passport photo. Glinda How to Kil _internals.rev 2/22/08

5:00 PM Page 400

40was appeased. I, on the other hand, was fearful y taken aback.

The appearance didn’t match the voice. Glinda was hard-edged, with a crispy mess of hair. Her head looked like it had been deep-fried.

I put the blindfold back on and let my escorts lead me in the direction of the gate. We walked slowly, and then Michael stopped.

“Security checkpoint,” he said. “You’re going to have to take that thing off.”

I untied the scarf, and when I opened my eyes I could have been standing at the entrance to a shopping mal . There were retail stores and fast food counters up ahead, and the only thing that disturbed me was the big machine waiting to make sure I wasn’t carrying any weapons.

Michael, Vera, and I took our places at the end of the line.

We moved when the people in front of us moved. At the halfway point, Michael put his hand on my back and said, “We should say goodbye here. Only ticketed passengers beyond this point.”

I jumped out of line and Michael asked the guy behind me to hold my place. I was panting now. Not only because I was terrified, but because I realized there were questions that needed answers, major issues that, due to the wondrous reality of being reunited with Paul, I had failed to address.

On Michael’s advice, I had told Burke and Queenie that I was going to Europe “to find myself,” or something asinine like that. But I had never discussed with Michael and Vera how or when I would be able to communicate with them.

“I am going to see you again, right?” Michael chuckled. “Yeah. I mean, not right away, but yes.”

I threw my arms around Vera and the tears came on both sides. Eventual y Michael tapped my shoulder and said, “You should get going.”

Michael’s eyes were watery too, but he pretended they weren’t.

“Thank you,” I said, squeezing him as tight as I could.

When I let go, he pushed me back in line.

“What if I can’t do it? What if I get to the gate and can’t go any further?”

“You can do it,” he said.

I passed through the metal detector without incident.

Then I picked up my carry-on and stopped to take one last look at my family.

“Go,” Michael said.

“You first.”

Michael and Vera waved without smiling. I waved back.

Then Michael put his arm around Vera, and they turned and walked away.

I kept my head down and took smal steps, heel to toe, until I arrived at my gate. I chose a seat facing the inside of the airport, to watch the travelers and learn their secrets, and so as not to actual y set eyes on the plane this time.

Pilots with starched uniforms and sharp posture passed by. Kids hopped around chairs. An elderly couple waited for their flight. Businessmen paced in corners with phones against their ears. None of them exhibited one iota of concern for their lives.

I tried to tel myself I was no different from any of these people.

Breathe
, I whispered.

Every time a plane took to the sky, the wal s screamed and the ground vibrated. Nine nauseating takeoffs later, a forty-something airline employee with a high-pitched voice punched in a code on a keypad, unlocked the door to the Jetway, and made a falsetto announcement that anyone with kids, disabilities, and those sitting in the first class cabin
40were welcome to board the aircraft.