Let the Music Play - 35. Don't Tequila the Eric

Helen jumped back, avoiding most of the flying liquid. Snatching up a broom by the door, she yelled at Eric, “If you squirt me again, I’m going to jam this broom so far up your ass you’ll choke on it!”

Flipping open her phone, she speed-dialed for Günter. As soon as he picked up, she said flatly, “Tequila. Get here and bring the guys. I’ve got Eric trapped in a utility room; just turn right when you exit the backstage area.”

Knowing that they wouldn’t let him have any fun, Eric searched for another way out. Finding none, he made a dash for the door, intending to barge past Helen. He almost made it, but Helen was too fast; she tripped him with the broom.

Eric flew headlong, landing with a thud on the concrete floor, inches away from freedom. He looked towards the door and began to scurry towards it, but Helen dashed out and slammed it shut. She leaned back, pulling it to keep it closed as Günter, with Jon and Chase, arrived at a run.

“You were right, he’s been drinking tequila,” Helen lowered her voice, not wanting Eric to know where she’d received the information.

Nodding, Günter said quietly, “I thought I smelled it on him and then I saw him acting suspiciously. I got here as fast as I could. Brandon is watching the door back at the party to make sure no one follows us out. The question is, now what?”

Fighting against a furious yank from the other side of the door, Helen heaved it closed again and said loudly, “Why don’t we just nail the door shut? I’m sure we could get the stadium people to leave him in there, permanently.” With a sigh, Helen added, “Jon, help me hold this door, he’s got to sober up sometime. Günter, go check the backstage party and make sure there’s no more tequila anywhere.”

As soon as Günter left, Helen said to Jon and Chase, “Guys, we may have another issue here; Eric was making out with a guy. If this gets out, especially after the rumors about Brandon and Chase...”

Jon and Chase exchanged a worried look, before Chase said softly, “Let me go in and talk to Eric; I’m good at dealing with him when he’s on tequila." Helen nodded and paused to concentrate on the door. Waiting until Eric gave the handle a hard twist, she let go. Eric, expecting to be fighting Helen’s pull, heaved back on the door, which opened with no resistance, sending him falling to the floor. Chase dashed in, shutting the door behind him sitting down cross-legged in front of it, grinning as he said, “What’s up, bro?”

Giving the door one last malingering look, Eric scooted over to sit in front of his brother, cross-legged, their knees touching, before replying with a pout, “I’ve got a great buzz and I’m locked in a closet, with you on this side of the door and Helen on the other. I heard Jon out there too.”

Smirking, Chase replied, “Yeah, bro, I figured that much out for myself. How lit are you anyway?”

Shrugging, Eric looked up at the ceiling as he replied, “I was doing real good, but Helen’s a major buzz-kill.”

Studying his brother carefully, Chase asked, “So what happened? Were you in here with a guy?”

Dropping his gaze to the floor and chuckling, Eric nodded, “Yeah, I was. He had the tequila and he dared me to kiss him, so I did.”

“That was your first time kissing a guy, right? How was it?” Chase asked with a knowing smile.

“Pretty decent, I guess.” Eric replied, pausing before adding, “Are you going to remind me of the night we named the band?”

“So you do remember, I always figured you did,” Chase said with a wry grin and a nod of his head.

Meeting his brother’s eyes, Eric’s smile faded as he said, “Yeah, after we named the band and Jon passed out, you and me had one of our talks. We named the band ‘Instinct’ because of me being able to read people sometimes. I also remember telling you that I sometimes find guys hot, but chicks are hotter.”

Chase reached out and Eric returned the gesture, meeting Chase’s hand and hooking fingers. Chase angled his head, giving his brother an inquisitive look and asked, “So how come you pretended not to remember? What’s the big deal?”

Still holding onto his brother’s hand, Eric smiled faintly as he replied, “I don’t really know. I guess I was a little uncomfortable with that part of me. You and I are so alike; almost twins, hell even more.... I guess I wondered if I was going to be gay too.”

Chase rolled his head back against the door and laughed. “Bro, I’ve never been into chicks, but you sure are. No freaking way could you be gay. That’s one way we’re not alike.”

Nodding, his hair falling across his forehead, Eric said, “Yeah, I know. I guess I just wasn’t comfortable with what I’d said. I’m glad I kissed that guy tonight, it was... different. Kind of like kissing a girl I’m not really attracted to.”

“I think you just don’t have any inhibitions, but you prefer girls to guys.”

Eric stared at the ceiling for a moment. “Yeah, I guess that pretty much sums me up. Thanks for the chat, bro. I feel a lot better now.”

"I think I know what you are... You're not gay and you're not bi, you're tri." Chase announced, struggling to keep from laughing.

"Tri?" Eric replied, arching both eyebrows.

"Yeah bro, what you like best is three-ways."

Throwing his head back and laughing, Eric decided that turnabout was fair play and said, “Yeah, you’re right, and there’s more than one way to do those, and Brandon is pretty hot...”

Chase's grip on Eric's hand tightened painfully for a moment, and Eric laughed again, knowing he’d hit the mark. Chase pretended to be angry – after a couple of seconds, he’d figured out his brother was joking – and said, “Hands off Brand, he’s mine. I hope you know you’ve given me the perfect blackmail tool, because if he finds out you said that...”

Laughing, Eric replied, “Okay bro, you win.”

Judging that his brother was indeed okay, Chase stood up. Sweeping an arm around the room he said, “Time to come out of the closet, bro.”

Eric chuckled at the bad pun as he stood up. “Yeah, but now I have to face Helen. Maybe I should stay in here, for a few years anyway?”

Chase opened the door a crack and peeked out. “She’s gone,” he said, opening the door and motioning for Eric to follow.

As they approached the door to the backstage party, Jon came out. “I was just going to check on you guys,” turning to Eric he said, “You okay now, bro?”

Laughing, Eric threw an arm over Jon’s shoulders and said, “I should be asking you that.” Waiting a few seconds for Jon’s puzzled expression to form, Eric said, “You realize you’re the only member of this band who hasn’t kissed a guy?”

“Yet,” Chase added with a wicked grin.

Rolling his eyes, Jon replied to Eric, “Nothing you do will ever surprise me, bro.” Turning to Chase, he said with a laugh, “You can stuff that, little bro.”

Together, the three brothers stepped inside, where Helen was waiting. She glared at Eric and asked quietly, “Are you sane again, or at least what passes for sane with you?” Eric nodded, and Helen said, “I just want you to know that I’m going to have signs made up.”

“Signs?” Eric asked in puzzlement.

“Signs,” Helen confirmed with a satisfied nod. “At the zoo, you often see signs saying ‘Warning: Do Not Feed the Animals’. So, I’m going to have a few dozen printed that say, ‘Warning: Do Not Tequila the Eric’.”

Helen walked away before Eric could reply. Günter walked up to Eric and said quietly, “The security staff member that you were drinking with told me we should keep his paycheck." Günter took care to keep his face impassive, though had he allowed himself to show a reaction to Eric's recent escapade, it would have been amusement rather than disapproval. A year before, Günter would have felt decidedly uneasy with the idea of one guy kissing another. However, the interceding time, and getting to know Brandon and Chase well, had changed Günter's opinions on a deep and meaningful level.

Eric arched an eyebrow in Günter's direction, as he remembered his own promise that Cody would not be hurt financially. The corner of Eric's mouth twitched up in a lopsided smile as he realized that Cody must have thought he'd stirred up trouble with the kiss rather than the tequila. With a nod, Eric said, "Make sure he gets his paycheck, and throw in an extra thousand from my account."

No sooner had Günter left than the girls closed in again and Eric began his routine of finding two or more to share his bed for the night.

On the stage, The Scar, his “Jerry” persona fully intact, supervised the dismantling and packing of Instinct’s gear. Trying to be in three places at once, he worked through the night. Only when the shipping container with his nuclear device was locked for the journey did he relax a little. As the sun came up, he breathed a sigh of relief that he’d only need to do this one more time.

By the time the sun neared its zenith, the trucks carrying the shipping containers rolled out of Candlestick Park, bound for the rail yard, where they would be loaded aboard a freight train bound for New York.

At the Toowoomba facility, Dimitri worked on a letter of his own, an e-mail to Mario. It had taken a while but Dimitri’s fertile imagination had conceived of a plan, one he thought would be perfect. He encrypted it and hit ‘send’. With that job done, he went to check on the engineer.

In what had once been the cleanroom, he found the engineer and his assistant hard at work, crating up a three-ton lens-grinding machine. That monstrosity, Dimitri remembered, had been used to mill the explosive lenses to the required exacting precision once they had been frozen with liquid nitrogen.

Trying to keep everyone happy, Dimitri said, “I’ll give you a hand. Just a few more days and we’re done.”

An hour later in Los Angeles, Mario decrypted Dimitri’s e-mail. Committing it to memory, he wiped the file and sat back to think. He admired the concept, but the logistics would be problematic and it would entail risk. He judged the risk worthwhile; especially given the generous price of the contract. If it worked, all five targets would be neutralized and it would look like an accident. Next, he consulted a phone book, wondering just how he’d find a goose.

Instinct arrived in New York two days before their concert. They had precious little opportunity to sight-see. Instead, they spent most of their time racing between office buildings as they made the rounds of various talk shows. On the day of the first concert at Madison Square Garden, they filmed with three different talk show hosts, and performed one song. They were almost as busy as their interim road boss was.

The Scar chugged a caffeine-laced energy drink, knowing that he needed to be awake and alert. It was far from easy; he’d worked through the night, supervising the setup of Instinct’s gear. ‘The City that Never Sleeps,’ he thought, was an appropriate label given his current sleep deficit. He consoled himself with the thought that the following afternoon’s concert would be their last.

Once the roadies were occupied on stage, The Scar removed his nuclear device from a subwoofer, resealing the empty case. He applied some ConEd decals and then with the aid of a forklift and a cable he dragged it towards the open end of the shipping container.

Instinct arrived at the venue a few hours early, intending to use the time to rehearse backstage as well as work on one of their new songs, if time permitted.

After two hours of rehearsals, the group took a break. Chase decided that he wanted to practice a few drum solos and Jon took the time to work on some guitar riffs. Chase, with a sly grin and a rumbling stomach, said, “I hereby volunteer Brand and Eric to go get us some food. See if you can find a hot dog stand, they have some great ones here.”

Replying with a laugh, Brandon agreed and set out with Eric in search of food. They found that the vendor stands in the arena had yet to open, but they knew there was a train station downstairs and that would have stands. Brandon voiced his concerns, “Hey, what if we’re recognized? Maybe we should get Günter to tag along.”

Grumbling as he considered Brandon’s point, Eric replied, “Yeah, I guess it could get a little hairy if we go alone, but I think Günter is busy with the security details for tonight. I think I know a way around the problem; let’s go find a couple of the roadies. I can give them some cash and they can go get the chow. I’ll make sure I give ‘em enough to get some for themselves and the crew too.”

Amazed that Eric had come up with such a sensible plan, Brandon agreed. What he didn’t know was that Eric had an additional idea.

Following Eric, who had to stop and ask a security guard for directions, Brandon found himself heading for the loading docks. Remembering his own days as a roadie he said, “We’re going the wrong way; the crew will be busy on stage now.”

“I just want to check on our stuff, while we’re passing through,” Eric replied with a sly smile.

Not getting it at first, Brandon said, “But we don’t need to pass the loading bay... oh, you want to check up on Jerry, right?”

“Hell-fucking-right I do. He’s up to something, I know he is. If he’s not there, I want to look at the shipping containers. Remember those five subwoofers we looked at? You know the gear better than I do; how many of that kind do we use? In San Francisco, I counted two in our sound rigging. So, why are there five in our gear?”

Brandon thought the conundrum over as they approached the loading bay. As they walked out the door into the noisy air of New York, he said, “Maybe one or two for spares, but not five. Yeah, that’s strange. When we get back to L.A., let’s have a look at our master gear inventory sheets. Helen must have copies in her office. The road boss has a set, but if you’re right about Jerry being up to something he could make them read anything he wanted to.” Brandon was absolutely correct; Jerry had indeed added the speakers to his copy of the master inventory sheet.

Walking up to the shipping containers, all parked in a row, they found them locked. All but one, which had a forklift parked nearby. Looking into the mouth of the container, Eric spied what appeared to be a large steel box, which had a few red logos on it.

Leaping up into the cargo container, Eric almost ran into Jerry. “Hi Jerry, how’s it going?” Eric asked, as he tried to glance over Jerry’s shoulder towards the back of the container. Jerry noticed the action and slid his hand into his pocket, taking hold of a garroting wire. “Well, hello, my fine young man, how are you today?” Jerry asked, with a disarming smile as he edged forward, trying to work his way behind Eric, thinking him to be alone, just in case the bassist needed to be silenced.

Brandon was standing to the side of the opening and Jerry hadn’t seen him. Brandon jumping into the container interrupted Jerry’s move and Jerry backpedaled a single pace before saying, “Well, this is a surprise; two fine specimens paying me a visit.”

Eric decided to push Jerry a little, figuring that if nothing else, irritating the man was always a worthy goal. Jumping up to take a seat on the steel bombcase, Eric asked with a disarming smile, “I was curious about the subwoofers; why haven’t they been unloaded yet?”

Jerry pondered the situation. Brandon was standing nearby, but Jerry did not have a knife. With just the garroting wire, he knew he could not take them both out simultaneously. Having no option but to talk his way out of the situation, Jerry waved expansively towards the back of the container. “As you can see, not everything was needed, including some of the rigging gear and these subwoofers. What we use depends on the venue.” Turning to look at Brandon, Jerry added, “You were a roadie once, were you not? You know that the setup varies.”

Brandon did indeed know. The sound, lighting, and other rigging varied, depending on the size and configuration of the venue and stage. For an indoor venue such as Madison Square Garden, the sound system would not require as many speakers, and the rigging for the lighting and other items might not all be used. Glancing around, Brandon noticed that some of the lighting scaffolding was stacked to one side of the subwoofers. The thought that five subwoofers were sitting idle did not make sense to him, but as he wasn’t quite positive, Brandon decided not to push too hard. “Yeah, you’re right, it does vary. I just didn’t think we had all that many subwoofers.”

“I can show you the master inventory sheet. I guarantee that nothing is missing; I check it all myself. I also rather doubt that subwoofers can just appear out of mid-air,” Jerry assured the two guys.

Changing tack, Eric looked down at the steel block on which he was perched and gave it a light backwards kick with one dangling foot as he asked, “What’s this thing?”

With a casual smile Jerry replied, “That, my dear boy, is my good deed for the day. The electric company is doing some work on some transformers adjoining this loading bay and they were complaining about having to lock up a construction shoring. It is merely a hollow steel box used to shore things up while they are working. Therefore, I offered to leave it here and let them get it tomorrow. The foreman was devilishly cute, so seeing no harm I simply had to help such a delightful creature.”

Giving the nuclear bomb a far harder kick, at which Jerry stifled a flinch, Eric said, “It seems pretty solid to me.”

Jerry shrugged, “He said it was heavy steel, because they must sometimes use them to temporarily support main girders and the like.”

Eric decided that another matter needed to be pushed. “Any news on our parents? You said you were working on our father...” Eric asked, letting his voice trail off as he watched for Jerry’s reaction.

Nodding enthusiastically, Jerry decided he needed to tell the annoying one something he wished to hear. “I did not wish to raise false hopes, nor do I wish to spoil a pleasant surprise, but you may expect a telephone call once you arrive in Telluride. Things have progressed well and your father has come largely around. I outed myself to him, at a time when his business was dependent upon mine. Expect a call in Telluride. It may not be easy at first, but the long separation is nearly over.”

Eric resisted the urge to arch an eyebrow or two. He believed that Jerry was lying about being gay, and he sincerely doubted that his father would let a business deal stand in the way of his moral outrage. Still, he reasoned, any hope was better than none, so he let it drop, figuring that they’d find out soon enough. Knowing that they needed to return to their band mates and wanting an unhindered look around, Eric asked, “Jon and Chase sent us out to get some hot dogs but we can’t go out in public without getting mobbed. Could I give you some money and have you go?”

Shaking his head, Jerry replied, “I’m afraid I can’t; I’m supposed to stay either here or at the stage during setup. However, I’m sure one of the roadies would be delighted.”

Brandon looked at Eric with amusement, wondering if he would try ordering Jerry to go. Brandon resolved to support Eric if he did; Jerry, Brandon thought, was indeed acting a little suspiciously, and the issue with the subwoofers didn’t add up.

With a shrug, Eric hopped down off the bombcase and said, “Okay, thanks, have a good one Jerry.” Eric paused and then turned, giving the nuclear bomb a hard kick. “Damn, this thing weighs a ton,” he said a few seconds later, hopping on one foot as he massaged his toe.

Nodding, Jerry agreed. “That’s why they wanted to leave it, most likely.”

Brandon followed Eric out of the cargo container, giving Jerry a friendly wave goodbye. As soon as they were out of earshot, Eric asked, “What do you really think; did his explanation about the subwoofers make any sense?”

“Kind of, but not totally,” Brandon replied. “I still think there’s too many, but we’ll check the master inventory back in L.A.”

Eric shrugged. “I think he was bullshitting about my father too. I guess we’ll find out in Telluride. What I don’t get is why would Jerry paint himself into a corner if he’s lying? He’s gotta know we won’t let this drop and he pretty much just promised us a reunion with our folks. I’ll see what happens, but for now let’s not mention that bit to Jon and Chase. I don’t want to get their hopes up; you know how bad Chase feels about this whole mess with our folks.” Brandon could only add a rueful nod.

They soon found a roadie, and ten minutes later Instinct plus the road crew were lunching on some genuine New York hot dogs.

By the time Instinct took the stage, The Scar was returning from a quick trip to his hotel. He had a very busy afternoon planned.

Arriving at Madison Square Garden by subway, he entered via Pennsylvania Station, which was effectively the basement level of the entertainment complex. It had once been far more.

Pennsylvania Station had originally been built as a massive building; the largest structure in the world, then or since, to be devoted to rail travel. An enormous granite edifice, modeled on the Baths of Caracalla in ancient Rome, had been erected in 1910. It boasted hundred-and-fifty foot ceilings, massive Doric columns, and soaring arches. Fifty years later, the City of New York had demolished it, obliterating one of the architectural wonders of the age. New York’s Grand Central Station is far smaller than Pennsylvania Station once was, and serves as a glaring reminder of what was so thoughtlessly destroyed.

Once the station had been mostly demolished, the office and entertainment complex known as Madison Square Garden had been built on the site. Pennsylvania Station existed now only as the basement level of the complex, with little remaining of what once had been.

However, some of it, a few pieces, a staircase here, an archway there, and several lengths of granite wall did remain. For those, The Scar was most grateful. He’d been even more pleased to discover a set of plans for the original station at a railway hobbyist's site online.

The Scar was back in the disguise of the landscaper he’d worn in Los Angeles; a toupee of long, silver hair that he tucked up under a baseball cap and a pair of inserts to his cheeks, along with a mustache. In lieu of the green coveralls, he’d selected orange, complete with a Consolidated Edison – ConEd – logo. His ID and forged work orders had been prepared with care to match this persona. He’d first scouted Pennsylvania Station over a year before and had taken great care in formulating his plan. He felt it was as perfect as he could reasonably achieve.

Using a heavy forklift from the loading bay, The Scar approached the shipping container. He’d left the bomb just inside the container’s door. Trusting to luck that no one would take note of such a pedestrian activity, he had the bomb in position on the forklift in less than a minute. Lowering it to near the ground, he re-locked the cargo container and trundled off. If anyone asked, it was a simple construction shoring, to be used to temporarily support a structure or protect a sensitive cable junction.

Using a freight elevator, he descended to the station level. His forged ConEd ID and work order at the ready, he drove across the busy platform, taking care not to hit any of the people rushing about. Two minutes later, he arrived at his destination, a small, original staircase, just hugging a wall and leading up to some soaped-out windows. The staircase, which had once led to a smoking lounge that was now a storage room, had only a five-foot rise. It led to a rectangular area outside the storage room, enclosed by one of the original brass banisters. The rectangular area, five feet wide by twelve feet long, had a hollow space beneath it. On the long side, facing from the wall towards the distant ticket booths, a slab of original granite enclosed the void. On the far end from the staircase, a much smaller slab of granite, four feet on a side, concealed the open space behind it. The Scar smiled; he could still see the tiny inspection hole he’d drilled many months before, in order to confirm the suitability of the space with a fiber-optic camera.

Setting to work, The Scar strung construction tape in order to cordon off the area and then unpacked his tools.

Using a pry bar, and sometimes a hammer and chisel, The Scar worked on the slab’s crumbling mortar. It took him an hour before he freed the slab, which was an inch thick and weighed over a hundred pounds. Straining, he eased it aside, revealing the rotting wood backing behind it. He smashed that aside with a hammer, finally uncovering the void beneath the platform. Peering in with a flashlight, he saw a couple of scurrying rats, but nothing else aside from dirt and garbage. He was certain that he was the first human to see into the space since 1910, over a hundred years before. Flicking open his cell phone, he checked to ensure that a strong signal was available within the space. As he’d expected, it was.

The Scar placed four bricks within the void space. Using the forklift, The Scar inched his bomb into the vacant space and lowered it into the bricks, taking care to ensure that the outermost edge of the bombcase was only one inch within the hole, in order to use it to backstop the granite slab.

He wrestled the granite slab back into place, nestling it against the bombcase, and set it in place with quick-drying mortar. He took the time to smooth the joins and sponge off any excess; he wanted the exterior finish to look professionally done.

After over two hours of work, he was almost done. He walked away, to a sandwich shop a few dozen yards down the concourse. Returning with his meal – Pastrami on Rye, his favorite – he sat in the forklift and had a leisurely and enjoyable, though very late, lunch. He had the time; he needed to make certain that the mortar was setting properly and for that, he needed to wait an hour.

Glancing around the station, The Scar smiled at the remaining granite. It would afford his device the secrecy it needed in more ways than one. Granite, he knew, emitted a small amount of natural radiation due to the traces of uranium it contained. A little-known fact is that Grand Central Station, due to the massive amount of granite it contains, has radiation levels higher than the maximum allowable for most areas of a nuclear power plant. The low-level background radiation in Pennsylvania Station was ideal for The Scar’s purposes; it would prevent any radiological scanner from detecting his bomb.

Returning to his hotel, The Scar looked at the forged work order and chuckled; he was amazed that he hadn’t needed it. No one had paid any attention to him at all. He’d been right all along; concealing one’s activities with a veil of normalcy was the best security of all. With his devices in place, The Scar felt on top of the world. With celebration in mind, he made a phone call to the front desk and asked them to make him a reservation for a late dinner at the best Italian restaurant in town. He figured that he’d best enjoy New York while he could; it might not be there for much longer.

During the encore sets, Günter pulled Helen aside and said, “I think we may have a situation. I’ve been keeping an eye on the merchandisers and I’ve noticed some counterfeits.”

Helen’s face acquired a red tinge; online piracy had heavily impacted the sales revenue for their albums, just as it did for all bands. Instinct made the majority of its income from merchandise and concerts. Counterfeiters, selling shoddy items, were a direct threat. “Call the police and see if we can have them investigate.”

Nodding, Günter let the other shoe drop. “There may be another issue. The stand with the counterfeit T-shirts was selling autographs and photos, by your former lead singer. He’s there.”

Helen’s initial response was to get even angrier; she had no love for Lump. The idea that he’d be involved with counterfeit Instinct merchandise at an Instinct concert came as no surprise. The PR angle, though. was one she would have to treat carefully; having him arrested would not make for good press. There was also the nagging problem of her promise to Jerry.

Gritting her teeth, Helen made her decision. “I’d better handle this myself. Lead the way.”

Approaching the vendor stand, Helen confirmed with a glance that most of the merchandise was counterfeit; cheap, unlicensed knock-offs that would likely disintegrate the first time they were washed.

She noticed a short line, and there, posing for photographs for ten bucks a shot, was Joe Clump. Helen’s blood boiled as she stormed up.

With his eyes dazzled by a camera flash, it took Joe a moment to recognize her. He instantly realized that she was angry, but not the reason. “Hello Helen,” Joe said quietly, “It’s been a while.”

Giving him an appraising glance, Helen noticed some major changes. He’d cleaned up; gone were the bloodshot eyes. He’d lost some weight, but the most striking change Helen could see was in his attitude; he seemed reasonable so far. Leading Joe aside for a little privacy, she said, “You’re looking well, Joe. How’s business?”

Misreading the question’s intent, Joe replied, “I’m clean now and I’m going to stay clean. I’m just working here to make ends meet. It’s my own autographs and photos I’m selling, part of my deal with this vendor.”

Looking around and finding no vendor in evidence, Helen assumed the worst. “Counterfeit merchandise is a crime, Joe. I won’t let you get away with this.”

Arching an eyebrow in surprise, Joe followed Helen’s accusing finger to a pile of t-shirts, a stack of CD’s, and posters. He mentally kicked himself for not realizing they were counterfeit; he’d needed the job so badly that he hadn’t wanted to see the warning signs. He was also well aware that he faced legal trouble, if Helen pushed the issue. Sighing in defeat, he said, “You won’t believe me, but I didn’t know.”

Amazed at the change she saw in him, Helen replied carefully, “I’m not saying I don’t believe you. However, look at it from my side; here you are, alone in a vendor’s stand with counterfeit merchandise. Given your history, what would you have me believe?”

Joe lowered his head and nodded. “Yeah, I guess if I were you I wouldn’t believe me either.”

Helen was amazed. Joe’s demeanor and body language had changed drastically. He was far closer to the young singer she’d first met than the arrogant addict she’d come to know later. She found herself believing that he was sober, which led to an offer that surprised her as much as its recipient, “Let’s say I believe you. I’m mainly interested at going after the guys making this crap, not the resellers. Will you agree to help us? In return, if you really have cleaned up your act, I’ll make sure it’s worth your while. However, this offer is only good if you stay clean.”

Shocked at the offer, Joe gave a surprise of his own by replying with a smile, “Helen, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Accepting with a single nod, Helen laid out her terms. “First, no further sales of the T-shirts or other counterfeit merchandise; I’ll have someone come by to confiscate them in a few minutes. Secondly, if you want to stay and sell autographs and pictures, that is your affair. I have no objection. Third, I need to know – where are you based these days?”

“I’m in a halfway house, back in L.A., and I have to be back there in about nine hours; I’m booked on the red-eye later tonight. Phil, the guy who runs the place, is picking me up at the airport.”

Wondering if she’d regret giving him a chance, Helen said, “I want to see you about your contacts for the counterfeit merchandise. We’ll be back in Los Angles in forty-eight hours. If you help us take them down, we’ll help you get back on your feet – if you stay clean.

Handing Joe her business card and instructing him to call her, Helen waited while Joe gave her the phone number of the halfway house. Walking away, she was surprised to find herself believing that he’d call.

Five minutes later, after instructing Günter to confiscate the counterfeits but to leave Joe alone unless he caused trouble, Helen picked up her phone to call Jerry and tell him the good news. Before she dialed, she realized that he was likely asleep, preparing for a long night’s work. She decided that good news could wait, for a few hours at least.

Dashing backstage, she watched as Instinct wrapped up their next-to-last encore song, to the thunderous approval of the crowd. Strolling forward with his microphone, Brandon yelled, “New York, we’ve got a surprise for you. Our last song will be something totally new. It’s called 'Lost to the World’ and it’s never been played in public before.”

A cheer, followed by an expectant hush, settled over the crowd as the lights began to dim, and Jon played the opening riffs before Brandon launched into the song.

Helen listened, nodding to herself in approval; they hadn’t been sure they’d be ready in time, but they’d done it. She liked how it sounded, even though she had a few reservations about closing the concert, and the tour, with such a dark song. She felt a slight shiver as Brandon sang the first stanza of the second verse, and its haunting words echoed through the arena, “Standing at the edge, looking out at a sullen sky, shattered dreams, all hope is gone... shot down in flames.”

Brandon finished the song, feeling butterflies in his stomach as the audience didn’t make a sound. The silence was beyond ominous, but his tension lasted only a moment; a few scattered claps from the audience grew to a thunderous roar that shook the stage as the audience finally reacted to the song.

Helen smiled; she knew how to read a crowd and that crowd had been as impressed as hell. They’d have another hit on their hands, of that she was sure.

Their final bow taken to a hail of cheers and roaring applause, Instinct jogged off the stage. The ‘Changing of the Guard’ tour was over.

© 2008 C James

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Many thanks to my editor EMoe for editing and for his support, encouragement, beta reading, and suggestions.

Thanks also to Shadowgod, for beta reading, support and advice, and for putting up with me.

A big "thank you" to to Bondwriter for final Zeta-reading and advice, and to Captain Rick for Beta-reading and advice.

Special thanks to Graeme, for beta-reading and advice.

A special "thank you" to Wildone, for help and advice on this chapter.
Any remaining errors are mine alone.