With the profits from the Yum Yums’ ad I bought two more houses in the area, flipped them, and sold them for a good deal of profit, so I was sitting pretty on a decent nest egg that will last me a while. This also allowed me to devote as much time as possible to the club. I’m currently an enforcer for the Dogs of Fire Portland chapter working towards my Captain’s patch.
For the next two hours, Flash and I shot the shit as we worked out. He was studying non-stop to keep his grades up while he played football and I envied him in a way. He’d known what he’d wanted to do from the second he’d come into the world, and he was working hard to make it happen.
“Proud of you, kid,” I said, as we wiped down the equipment and turned off the lights.
“Thanks.” He grinned. “You comin’ inside or headin’ home?”
“I’m comin’ in,” I said.
Flash grinned. “Fuck yeah.”
I chuckled. “I’ll see you inside.”
He gave me a chin lift and I dropped my stuff in the saddlebag of my bike before heading up to my room to shower. I didn’t leave a whole lot at the club since I had my own place, but I did leave a few things so I could stay overnight if I wanted to imbibe.
And tonight, I wanted to imbibe.
Melody
“Who else has seen this?” I asked, feeling my face flush with anger.
“No one. As far as we know,” Chip, my new head of security, said. “Besides the two of them, of course.”
“How did you get a hold of it?” I asked.
“Look, maybe the less you know about how we handle—”
“You can stop right there,” I said. “This is my tour. It’s my name on the marquee and it’s my name on the ticket. The label may be paying your salary, but I manage myself, which means I’m personally responsible for every performer, crewmember, and person in the audience over the next thirteen weeks. I may just look like a young woman to you, but I can assure you, I’ve been in the business all my life and know exactly how dark and deep the cracks run.”
Chip nodded. “The phones that were issued to the band at the start of tour rehearsal are property of the label. Therefore, Red Banana Records maintains access to all communications and recorded material contained on them.”
“You sound more like a lawyer for the label than security,” I said.
“It’s getting harder for me to tell the difference myself these days,” Chip said, a slight grin showing through his silver moustache.
“We need to know for sure. Where the hell is Gill?” I asked, but before Chip could answer, I’d walked off the stage and was headed for the band’s dressing room.
I was a ball of rage. We’d spent months carefully vetting every single tour staff member and run background checks on all of them, including the musicians, roadies, and technical crew members. Even the ones who’d been with me for years. And yet, this slime bag somehow squeezed through the cracks. Another predator waiting to strike.
At least this time I’d had a heads-up and could do something about it.
I busted through the dressing room doors hoping to see the whole band, but only finding my long-suffering drummer, Rod Archer, on the floor doing his usual pre-show yoga.
“Where the fuck is Gill?” I barked out.
“Last time I saw him he was talking to some fans,” Rod said, in between breaths, completely unfazed by my dramatic entrance. Over the last twelve years, Rod had seen me at my absolute bat shit craziest, and it would take a hell of a lot more than my storming around backstage to break the flow of his chi, or whatever he called it.
“What fans? Where were they?” I asked.
“I dunno. Some girls. He was by that tent where we did the VIP meet and greet earlier.”
I groaned. “By the press tent?”
“I guess so, yeah.”
Great. The absolute last thing I needed was for the press to get a front row view of me murdering my new guitarist. Of course, if Doc Diamond was still my manager, Gill would already be in an unmarked grave before I ever knew there was a problem. Then again, Doc would also secretly be pocketing an extra fifteen percent of the tour’s profits.
“I’ll radio my team,” Chip said, still a bit winded from our jog to the backstage area.
I nodded.
Chip Robertson had come highly recommended by Stracey, the incomparable vocalist and performer, who he’d done five tours with. And while I was impressed with his credentials and work so far, I was worried that he might not have the physical strength and stamina he once had. After what had happened with my last bodyguard, there was no way I was going with someone who didn’t have experience and a spotless record. Unfortunately, that narrowed the pool down to slightly older candidates.
“Blue Team, this is Team Leader,” Chip said over his radio. “I need a twenty on Zeppo, over.”
Starting at an early age, I’d been hounded mercilessly by the paparazzi, so our security team always used code names when discussing members of the band. Sometimes it was cartoon characters or historical figures. Once, I got to be Joan (as in of Arc). On this tour, the musicians were named after an old comedy group called the Marx Brothers. My code name was Maggie, after Margaret Dumont, the most famous of the female leads. Of course, Chip had to explain all of this to me, as I knew nothing about the Marx Brothers, other than that they made black and white movies and that one of them had a big moustache and smoked a cigar.
“Roger, Team Leader. This is Blue Three. I’ve got eyes on Zeppo,” a voice crackled back on Chip’s radio.
“Roger that, Blue Three. Please escort Zeppo to the band’s dressing room. Maggie’s orders. And collect his phone as well. This is a code ‘Spanish Archer,’ so act accordingly.”
“Roger, Team Leader. Out.”
“What’s a Spanish Archer?” I asked.
“It means someone’s getting fired,” he replied.
I shook my head, still not understanding the reference.
“You know,” Chip said, thrusting his elbow outward. “Spanish Archer. The old ‘El Bow.’”
“Thank you, Chip,” I said, trying my best to smile through my seething anger at Gill.
Just then, the rest of my band came into the dressing room together.
“Hey, Boss,” Vick Weathers, my keyboardist and musical director, said. Multi-instrumentalist Andy Schultz, and legendary U.K. bassist and veteran road dog Edgar “Puddin’” Daily had all done multiple tours with me, but none of them had put in the time that Rod had.
Gill Crenshaw, on the other hand, had only been in the band for two months. Both of which were spent rehearsing for what my label kept referring to as my “career redefining” tour. Gill was a top player who came highly recommended by Puddin’. They played together on Brooks Martin’s last world tour and had great on-stage chemistry together. Gill seemed like the perfect fit for this tour, which was now in jeopardy before we’d even played the first show. Tonight’s gig was a charity event hosted by Gunnach Pharmaceuticals which was supposed to serve as a dress rehearsal for the tour, which made this whole situation even more messed up.
“I’m telling you for the last time, man. Keep your fuckin’ hands off me, bro,” Gill said as the massive security guard tossed him into the center of the room, before handing the phone to Chip.