“Go to hell,” I spat out.
They burst out laughing, the three of them.
“The balls on this kid!” Kip said from his seat. “We should hire him.”
LaLanne grabbed me by both elbows as Rog encroached on me. “Come on now, snoopy dog-dog. Who told you to look into all this Daily Telegraph horseshit?”
“Nobody,” I said. “Your mother.”
Rog rolled his eyes, unfazed. “Well, who told you ’bout Fountain Grove?”
“Nobody, no one.”
I wriggled and LaLanne gave me one hard shake—my arms practically popped out of their sockets. I said, “Let go of me,” which he didn’t. Then I angled to the bosses: “They came to you, with Cinnamon Persky and a test pressing. Maybe Marj sent them—your old comrade, Marjorie Hirsch Persky. Were you gonna put the record out or play it or what?”
Kip stepped to me. “Play it? Is this a nut job—‘play it.’ Play it where? The Daily Telegraph, the shittiest group in the history of recorded music. Who sent you here?”
I said, “Nobody,” and Rog smacked me once hard—the side of my face lit up like a gas fireplace.
Kip shook his head—good cop mode. “Roger, please—what is the fuss here?” Then, to me: “Yes, The Daily Telegraph. We heard them, as a favor to Marj—she said her daughter’s managing this group, they got a record, we said great, tell her to come by, play us a few tracks. But we didn’t see it, you dig. We passed, sent ’em packing.”
“So you do remember them,” I said, my face still on fire.
“What’s to remember?” Kip said, “I quote liked it unquote, but—”
“No, no,” Rog said, “I thought it was okay, you said—”
“Well, you said, okay, they’re fun but it’s throwback.”
“And you said the singer was—”
Kip shrugged. “The singer didn’t have it.”
Rog snickered. “Whatever the hell it is, he did not possess it.”
“You remember them,” I repeated. “And you remember Cinnamon.”
But Rog was furious—he’d overheated and been called out. Through clenched teeth: “Now what the hell is it you’re trying to find out?”
“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.
