P.J. Morse - Clancy Parker 01 - Heavy Mental (17 page)

Dad pulled off his suit jacket and threw it across my Barcalounger. “I had some business in San Francisco, too. May as well do both.” He then griped, “I have offered you a real job at the grocery. I think it is about time you took it. I know full well that ice-cream truck business was no accident. You are mixing with a bad element.”

“Would you stop calling my clients—and I know you’re talking about Harold, too, by the way—a ‘bad element’? What I do is a valuable public service. And the last time I was back East, your marketing VP tried to hire me to spy on his wife, remember? Is he a ‘bad element’ for trying to hire me?”

“Oh, please,” he replied, but he knew it was true. “Turn on your computer.”

As the cupcakecity.com laptop booted up, Dad said, “The only friend of yours I like around here is that guy you were dating. It’s too bad you broke up. What was his name? Larry? He seemed like he had an ounce of sense, but no … he had to be totally crazy for him to be good enough for you!”

“May I remind you that he dumped me?” I opened a browser and typed in the Web address of one of the local channels.

“Well, you don’t listen to anyone! You are just like—”

“—your mother,” I finished. It didn’t take me long to find a video about the ice-cream truck crash. I was surprised it even got that much press. “This what you wanted?” I asked.

“Yes! Yes! Push the button! Make it play!” He jabbed his finger at the air.

I hit play on the clip. A new browser window opened, and, after a buffer and a commercial for the Tip-Top Mattress Shop, the video finally started.

“… and so the campaign against freak dancing rages on,” a distinguished, older male anchor said. He turned to his much younger, blonde counterpart. “Roxanne?”

Roxanne, who looked more like a Playboy playmate than a journalist, turned to the screen. “A bizarre scene unfolded at the Brilliant Systems baseball park this afternoon when a rogue ice-cream truck slammed into a donut shop.”

The camera cut to the scene. I was surprised the news crew arrived so quickly after the scene, but it made sense since they were already out for the ball game. I could see shots of myself hugging Anmol and then helping Harold away from the scene. Roxanne’s voice overlaid everything: “Someone must have been screaming for ice cream during today’s Giants-Cardinals game when a man hijacked an ice-cream truck. The truck’s driver described the situation.”

The camera cut to Anmol, who looked horrified and confused. His turban was tilted. “This man … this man, he hit me, he tried to take my turban, and he took my truck!” The station abruptly cut him off, probably before he unleashed a few choice expletives.

Shots of the San Francisco Giants making plays during the game appeared while Roxanne spoke. “Even the members of the San Francisco Giants were interested in the incident.”

The scene cut to a post-game press conference, where Clayton Crespo was behind microphones. “Yeah, we heard about that ice-cream truck. We could smell those donuts burning back in the locker room.” Crespo looked around the room. “Hey, man, I’m hungry! Where can we get some Krispy Kremes around here?”

Then Roxanne wrapped it up. She was trying desperately not to laugh as she said, “No ice cream was reported missing. Though some of it appeared to have melted.”

Dad threw up his hands. “What were you doing there? Why was that truck after you?”

“A case got a little too close to me, that’s all. No one got hurt, and insurance is going to cover the truck, okay? It’s going to be fine.” After seeing the hit-and-run that killed Rosa, I wasn’t entirely sure what I was saying was true, but I had to convince Dad enough to get him on a plane back to Boston.

Then, both of us heard a beeping noise. Each of us instinctively pulled Crackberries from our pockets. I noticed that Dad had a newer, more expensive model than I did. “Oh, you got one of those now, eh? Mr. Technology.”

He held up a finger, as the text that came in was for him. “Those damn Brussels sprouts people. I have to run. I am at the Hyatt, and you will be seeing me again. I am not done with this.”

I shook my head. “Dad, I’m sorry this freaked you out. It freaked me out, too, but I’m not changing anything. I like my life.”

Dad ignored that comment. Instead, he turned his back to me and made a phone call. I heard him say, “If that lying bastard thinks I’m going to pay that much for Brussels sprouts, he’s an idiot.” He punched a button on the Crackberry. “I will see you later, young lady. And I should talk to your mother because I just know she’s in on this.”

I didn’t answer that since Mom helped me at the museum. Then again, I thought the two of them might get a little kick out of fighting with each other. It had been a while for both of them. “Dad, can I get a hug?”

“Okay.” He hugged me, and he hugged me hard. I could tell that I was going to win the battle. Even if Dad was inattentive and generally against anything that I stood for, I would always be his only baby.

When he was finished with the hug, he went for the door. Before he left, he said, “And tell your landlord to take a shower!”

CHAPTER 23

EXCLUSIVE RIGHTS

I
SLEPT FOR A LONG TIME,
so long that I didn’t wake up until my Crackberry went off the next morning, and Wayne said he was coming to get me in Westy, his roomy 1984 VW Westfalia, for more band auditions at the Echo Chamber.

A quick shower and breakfast bar later, and I was over in Potrero Hill, grateful for the distraction. Filling an open space in the band seemed much simpler than dealing with the Buckners’ case, Rosa’s death and Dad’s spur-of-the-moment visit.

As soon as I arrived and saw Shane and Wayne getting their instruments in fighting condition, I followed through on Muriel’s request to ask Shane what happened between the two of them. “Muriel says you’re a sumbitch with a capital ‘S.’”

Wayne was off tuning in the corner. He chuckled.

Shane held out both his arms. “She still wants to kill me?” he asked.

“Actually, it goes beyond killing,” I replied. “She’s been kind of like a zombie on this one. She’s single-minded. She wants to gnaw on your human flesh. She’s that pissed.”

“What happened there, Shane?” Wayne asked. “I thought you dug her.”

“She’s right. I deserve to be gnawed on,” Shane said. He walked over to his drum kit, planted his behind on his stool and sighed in contentment, “Ah, I feel much better.”

“Oh, no. You’re not hiding behind the drum kit,” I said. “We had girl talk—”

“No, not that!” Wayne interjected.

“—yes, Wayne, that. And Muriel insisted that I ask you what happened. She said you’d know. All I know is that she wanted exclusive rights.”

“I’m sorry she’s still mad. She is big fun. There’s no one else like her. I asked her to take me back, but she wasn’t having it,” Shane tapped his head with a drumstick. “I am an idiot. Do you really want to know what happened? It was bad.”

“Yes, I do. Then I won’t bug her about joining the band anymore,” I replied.

Shane looked contrite. “Technically, we were not committed.”

“That sounds like you two were going to go to the insane asylum,” I said.

“No, no,” Shane said. “She just told me she wanted a commitment talk. And I got scared. So I got drunk and slept with another Thunderpussy.”

Wayne dropped his hand from the neck of his guitar. He bowed low in Shane’s direction. “Sire, I commend thee. You slept with not one, but two Thunderpussies? Which one? Cassie?”

Shane looked a little too proud of himself after Wayne’s admiration. “Nope. Nina.”

“Nina? You rule!” Now Wayne was truly impressed. “She’s a man-eater!” he sang out, to the tune of Hall and Oates.

Shane shrugged. “Eh. I was drunk at the time. I don’t remember it.”

“Dude! I wanted details!” Wayne yelled.

I waved my arms, reminding them to get their brains out of their britches and back into band practice. “Okay, sorry I asked! No Hall and Oates references during practice!” And then I addressed Shane directly. “I know I messed up with Larry, and I regret it every damn day, but would you mind, Shane, letting us know the next time you plan on mingling fluids with other bands?”

“I’m sorry,” Shane looked like a puppy that had been spanked with a newspaper. I really did feel bad for him.

“Well, it did kind of fuck up our plans, dude,” Wayne said.

“I wish I hadn’t done it. I mean it.” Shane struck a cymbal. “Like I said, I’m an idiot.”

Wayne’s cell phone went off. “OK, let’s put this heartbreak to bed. It’s audition time.” He left the space to let an aspiring bassist into the Echo Chamber.

I turned to Shane. “Have you ever thought of apologizing? Chances are good she might forgive or even take you back. She says she hates you, but then she won’t shut up about you,” I said.

“It’s probably as likely as your getting back together with Larry,” he replied. “Which means it won’t happen.”

“I don’t think Larry is off somewhere talking about me or thinking about me. In fact, his life is much better without me. Your chances are better with Muriel.”

“I would like to see her,” Shane said, tapping his sticks together. “If I could just talk to her for a few minutes … but she’s in the right. I am a Sumbitch. But I play great drums!” And he started banging away.

Wayne brought in an older guy who looked like he rolled out of bed and forgot to take off his mismatched pajamas. I detected a mysterious whiff of asparagus in the air. “I really like the songs of yours I heard,” the hygienically challenged bassist mumbled. His voice was sleepy.

I said, “Well, let’s set up and give it a go. We have the sheet music, too.”

“Yes. But I need to do my chants first.” He pointed at the corner of the room past Wayne. “Can I use that back corner?”

“Uhh … okay.” Wayne stepped aside.

The man placed both hands on either side of the corner and rested his head in the corner itself. “I am focusing my energy in this room!” He then began to speak in what appeared to be tongues, although I caught strands of other languages in there. I thought he was saying something in German about fish being the devil.

Shane, Wayne, and I looked at each other. If his chants were short, then we might have played, but he kept going on and on. Wayne looked at his watch and mouthed, “Six minutes.”

Shane, who had been fidgeting through the chanting, asked, “Are you okay, dude?”

The man pulled his head out of the corner and shook it violently. “No, no. I get bad vibes. Bad vibes!”

“All righty, then.” Wayne walked out of the room. He came back with some members of the funk band that practiced down the hall. The members of Black Ice were always willing to do Wayne favors because he kept them stocked with pot. “Buddy, you have to go,” he said, nodding his head at the guys behind him. Black Ice, all five of them, stood as a unit and nodded on cue.

Then the funk band’s vocalist yelled, “Damn! This smells like asparagus piss!”

The auditioner stood there. The funk band stood there. The other Marquee Idols stood there. I decided to act. The guy started into the tongues again, but my screaming at Dr. Redburn’s office gave me good practice, and I was much louder. I advanced on him, shouting “Out! Out! O-U-T OUT!” and he backed up toward the door until I could slam it in his face. Then I leaned back against it.

“Why, oh, why can we not find a bassist who knows our music, who is sane and who doesn’t smell like asparagus piss in this city?” I asked. I could see that precious gig at the South of the Slot slipping through my fingers, and I knew I had to think of a way to get Shane back in Muriel’s good graces.

“It’ll get better,” Wayne said.

It didn’t. Our next arrival was yet another angry fan of the Steve Miller Band. After that, we gave up, got stoned, and jammed with Black Ice. Their bassist even offered to play with us, but they had a gig scheduled in Sebastopol on the same night we were going to play at the South of the Slot.

After a long session and the consumption of multiple large pizzas, Shane, Wayne, and I loaded up our equipment into Westy, and Wayne headed over to South Park first to drop me off.

From the passenger seat, I could see Larry and Dad sitting on the steps of the apartment. Harold was, as usual, in his lawn chair. “What the hell is this? An intervention?” I asked.

“Oh, this is gonna be good!” Shane called out from the backseat.

“That your Dad? Oh, shit!” Wayne asked.

“We’ll save you!” Shane declared.

Wayne pulled up, and I hopped out. I looked right at Larry. “What are you doing here?”

Dad spoke instead. “You gave me his number for emergencies. And I thought it might be a good idea for you to talk.”

“Regular Dr. Phil over here,” Harold muttered.

“Stay out of it,” Dad said.

“This is awkward,” Shane said, climbing out of the van.

“You’re telling me,” Harold chimed in.

“Would you do this if I were a boy?” I asked. “For real?”

“Jesus, Clance! We’re just trying to help you. Your dad said you and Harold almost died at the ball park!” Larry stood up. “We’ve been waiting here an hour. I just think maybe you should transfer this case to Pinkerton or somebody. They can handle it. You don’t have to do it.”

“You think I can’t handle it?” I asked.

Wayne sat down on the steps and looked up at Larry. “Hold on loosely, but don’t let go, dude.”

Larry replied, “I’ll take that under consideration, philosopher-king.” Then he took another look at Wayne, who was still glassy-eyed. “What are you smoking these days? Asparagus? You smell terrible!”

Shane, Wayne and I went into a stoner-fit of laughter. “Are you high?” Dad asked.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Harold muttered. “He’s not a cop.”

“You, sir, are a terrible example!” Dad yelled.

I stepped up to where I was about a foot from Larry. “
You
left, remember? So, why do you care?”

Larry leaned in and replied, “
You
didn’t seem to like me much anymore.”

“So why are you up in my business?” I asked.

Then Larry started shouting. “Most of the shit you do is illegal! Do you even remember half the rules private investigators are supposed to follow? You don’t even take it seriously!” He was turning red, and even Dad leaned back.