“Did you see Cinnamon Persky again—before she died?”

“Of course not. Now what are you doing here?” Just like Gladstone, his answer came one beat too fast, one note too hard.

I paused, looked at him skeptically. “I found the test pressing, I talked to Lazerbeam, I—”

“Lazerbeam?” Rog shook his head in disgust. “There’s a name I haven’t heard in a dog’s age.”

“Oy vey,” Kip said, waving hands in the air. “Not that idiot.”

“World’s biggest fanboy strikes again.” Rog raised a hand and made the letter L on his forehead, imitated a high-pitched squeal: “I was on Shebang! I met Casey Kasem!”

“Burden on the state.”

“Somebody should shoot a laser in that idiot’s head.”

I wriggled against LaLanne again, restrained like a prisoner.

“Larry Lazerbeam,” Kip said. “Somebody get that fella a time machine.”

Rog faked a microphone: “Broadcasting live from the Loserbeam time machine, daddy-o.”

They started to laugh.

“What happened to Cinnamon?” I blurted. “Where did you send her?”

The DJs exchanged glances of disgust and then Rog grabbed my lapel in one last attempt to be king of the hill. “You listen to me, you nut. What happened to the Perskys was a goddamn tragedy, and it ain’t none of your business. Now amscray. If I catch you playing around here again, you’ll be very, very sorry.”

Kip flopped back in the seat to enjoy more almonds. “Adam,” he said half-conciliatory, “you don’t look like a guy who’s ever had his feet held to the fire. Be smart and keep it that way.”

Then Rog said, “Jimmy, get him outta here,” and LaLanne dragged me down the hall and out of the building. He didn’t loosen his grip as he led me back up the pathway in the afternoon sun. The elderlies looked on like they were witnessing an arrest. Up in one window I saw another naked couple, men this time, doing the stand-close nudie tai chi. I stopped at the sight of them and LaLanne gave me a yank.

“Take it easy, oatmeal head,” I said—not the world’s cleverest insult, but it made him sore.

At the door of my car, he finally let go of me with a thrust. “Beat it, putz.”

I spun around and took a swing for him—foolish. He blocked and returned the favor in two punches, one to the belly, one hard to the jaw, then walked off victorious as I went to my knees, staggering up onto the Jetta, fumbling for the keys, wheezing as I got in. I drove off the property, back up the coast, vibrating with pain.

By the time I got home to Santiago Sound, the stinging was gone, but I was still throbbing in the ribs and face. I parked and made it up the outdoor stairs, pulling the banister one hurting step at a time. I opened the door to my studio expecting to fall right on the bed, but to my surprise Endi Sandell was sitting on my futon couch, plucking at my beat-up guitar.

22

Her face went horrified when she saw me. She put the guitar down and hopped to her feet.

“Oh my God, what the hell happened to you?!”

“Well,” I said, tossing my keys in the basket. “Hello.”

“Were you in an accident?!”

“Of course, you might be an optical illusion…”

“Adam.”

“Naw, you look too good to be an illusion—how’d you get in here?”

“Me? The nice old man downstairs showed me up. I told him I was your sister.”

“But—he already knows my sister.”

“Well then, he must be very confused at the moment—what happened to your face?”

“My face? Oh, yes, my face. I…I’m a bit old for skateboarding, I realize that now.” I faked a balancing act.

“It’s kinda gnarly, Adam. Do you have medical insurance?”

“Who do you think I am, Jeff Bezos?”

“Well, is there any Neosporin in this place?”

“Neo what?”

“Hydrogen peroxide?”

Soon she was seated next to me on the bed, daubing the cut on my lip with a Q-tip, and we were very close. But her expression was stern.

“You don’t strike me as the daredevil type.”

“What type do I strike you as—ouch.”

“Don’t smile.” She gave me the dubious once-over. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. I looked you up. Not that I’m stalking you or anything.”

“Oh. That’s…I’m flattered. Find out anything good?”

“Well, you live in a recording studio for one.”

“Yeah—it’s, uh, affordable.”

“Do you play those instruments?”

I froze. “No. I mean, I know a few chords but, no, they just keep those here.”

“I didn’t find too many music articles by you, but I did see an article about you. They said you solved a homicide?”

“Oh that, that was just—that was a flukey thing, one of my riders. Yeah, that was awful.”

“But are you really writing about that band or what?”

“Yeah.”