“Merciful? They came to my door. They mocked me, laughing their asses off. In front of my dad.”

“I know,” she said. “They—didn’t understand. They were children. We were all children, Benji. And I am so sorry.”

He sneered, soaked in the confession, and for a split second, I thought it had penetrated him, softened him.

I was wrong.

He started laughing himself into a frenzy, jacked the gun up under her chin. “Yeah? Well, here’s where I get merciful. First, I’m gonna redo that record in my name. Every fucking song. Then I’m gonna put it up on Spotify, take Elkaim’s money, and promote the shit out of it. ’Cause I am The Daily Telegraph, the breaking news—now where is it, Zantz?”

He thrust the gun again as I was about to answer, but at that moment a lamp that had been dangling hit the ground with a smash, he turned and in the flash of distraction, I pounced, karated the pistol out of his hand, sending him in one direction, Cinnamon in the other. She scattered and fell back onto the floor as Appelfeld and I rolled on hard cement, punches flying—he grabbed at my hair, bashed me against some kind of car track, but I kick-toppled a table over him, sending him onto his bad leg, and he grabbed at the downtown skyline to balance.

I was down, trying to pull myself up onto the capsized table, then Cinnamon screamed as Appelfeld leapt up, ape-style, and went into a crazy jacked-up one-legged snort dance, looking for the gun, his shoulders bouncing. She was shivering full-on now, clutching onto the edge of the table. I thought she might throw up. I almost got up but slipped. He hollered like a banshee, lunging forward onto a skyline, up on his bloody knee with the tilted City Hall wobbling behind him. With determination he reached and broke the telegraph pole off the Wilshire Grand, its antennae as straight and sharp as coat wire, swishing and thrusting like a sword, thrashing the air as he came at me.

“Your ship has sailed, motherfucker!” He charged down at me, the sharp metal about to plunge into my gut and then—

A thundercrack, earsplitting loud—Appelfeld flew back and arched like origami and crashed onto the corded floor, the antennae flying as he clutched at his back.

Cinnamon seemed to shake from the gun wavering at the end of her skinny arms. She stared at it in horror, dropped it, and came for him, not to finish him off but to save him, and she threw herself over him as if to reach for a former safety long gone, cradling him under the busted Hollywood sign, the folded mountain range razed in green and brown. All at once, Appelfeld started heaving, he was still alive, a hunted animal curled under these ruins, a plastic paradise shattered all around him, his shirt going red, and she looked to me, dazed and shaken.

I hauled myself up on sore knees and said, “Call an ambulance—now.”

She pulled her phone and started calling as I tore off my hoodie, ripped it and tried to tie off his torso. She pleaded to the dispatch operator, and then there was a grim chaotic silence, nothing but AC and the whirring of lights.

I said, “Help is on the way.”

But I couldn’t tell if he heard me—the wounded animal, considering a flight he can’t actually make.

“Don’t move,” I said. “ ’Cause if I let go of this rag…you’re toast.”

He took it in, nodded, his lip curled.

Then, to my great surprise, Cinnamon took his hand, gazed upon him with patient tenderness.

Their eyes met. Something was exchanged, something only old friends can share.

Then, without rancor, she said, “Why’d you do it, Benji?”

He flashed with pain and shame, but he understood her.

“Why’d you hurt Rey-Rey?”

He winced.

“You could’ve gunned down the whole band,” she said with a half-laugh. “But you picked the one guy, our little Rey—why, Benji?”

He didn’t or couldn’t or wouldn’t answer. He panted. I held him in place—his blood was on my hands, and I couldn’t let go. His eyes did a mini-REM, fighting the darkness. Then he exhaled sharply.

He mumbled, “I found him there, naked.”

“Found him?” She was coolheaded, right here in the here and now.

“Your mom’s studio, she was…under him.” He snorted. “And when she saw me, she threw Rey off her and pulled the sheet.”

Cinnamon nodded—one knowing nod—it was enough to keep him going.

“I…I went crazy, Cin. Yelling—how…how they burned me.” He looked up at her, soldier to nurse. “Your mom, I loved her.”

Cinnamon stiffened with barely veiled disbelief.

He whispered. “She’d said we were a team. She called us…the hotness trio.”

Cinnamon took it in. “And…they cut you out.”

“I didn’t want to hurt anyone,” he said with a whimper. “But Rey got belligerent, standing there naked. He pushed me, fuckin’ naked midget, thinking he was gonna become some kinda big—he pushed me.”

Appelfeld seized up and squinted like he’d just gotten pushed again—I tightened my grip on the hoodie but it was damn wet.

“I told Rey I knew all about the fancy producer and the big-time deal. And Rey was like, ‘You don’t know shit, dude.’ And they just…cracked up, both of them, they were laughing too. They wouldn’t stop. She was—so beautiful with the white sheet like a Greek goddess, and him standing there with his big old dong hanging out—they—I had to make it stop.”

Cinnamon and I exchanged a side glance—Appelfeld closed his eyes.

“I grabbed the lamp. I swung it—the…he just kind of staggered there for a second, blood all over his face. And I…I did it again.”

Now he opened his eyes and stared at her blankly, but there was remorse in there, way deep inside. And then it rose, burst in a torrent of hoarse tears.

“I killed our drummer,” he said, heaving with failing breath. “I destroyed the band.”

And it was so awkward, this final lie hanging onto the fantasy by its fingernails—my mouth parted to say something, maybe to correct him, but no words would come and there were sirens in the distance, getting closer—were they for us? Time was turning to floating particles in the green light under crumbling cities and Appelfeld was letting go, not just of the past but the present, fading to permanent and stationary sleep—yet something kept him from completing the journey; he was caught on a snag. Hand trembling, he reached for the drawstring on Cinnamon’s parka, but gentle. He had one last confession to make.

“I…hated his guts. Just—” But he could not complete the thought.

“Rey-Rey?” Cinnamon asked, with strained compassion.

He shook his head a little.

“Emil?”

“Mm-mm.”

“Devvy?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head once hard, eyes going wide, twisting up with the last of his powers. “My dad. Fucking loser. Complaining day and night about how the world did him wrong. How he was so great and he had fallen so far. Like just being our dad was such a disappointment, such a fucking punishment. I just…”

Now Appelfeld looked right through her—maybe to white light. Then he said, “But he was a star. To me, I mean. He was the star.”

Their eyes locked in curious understanding. I clutched the blood-soaked cloth as if I was the one hanging on for dear life. Appelfeld smiled with a trembling hurt deeper than any gunshot.

“And I wanted to save him. So bad. Like, if I could be a part of the band, I could be a real star, and then…he would be a real star too.” And then Benjamin Appelfeld took one last look at Cinnamon, and, as if to explain everything, he mumbled, “My dad.”