Dead brilliant, p.8
Dead Brilliant, page 8
Roc blanched at this, and Uncle continued, seeing him faltering. “It’s cool. Worst case, you land, do the show … look, the MTV shooters are hand-held and are used to zooming in on beach volleyball butts.” Uncle put his hand on Roc’s shoulder. “Not to denigrate that, of course.” Roc smiled thinly.
“You look great, man. No worries. Once you get close enough to be recognized from the ground, they’ll start playing the track for ‘Swan Dive,’ anticipating your landing, and the kids will start to sing along. That’ll be the cue for Eddie to haul you in. I’ve hired a couple of extra shooters to make sure we get the whole thing in case the network guys are asleep. I’m going to cab it to Malibu to meet Marie and Stan and the rest of the crew, and I’ll see you here as soon as I can get back. All right?”
Roc nodded and blinked away the dust from his eyes during Uncle’s instructions, feeling like everything was moving dreamlike, just beyond his touch. He mumbled, “Thanks, man.” Uncle patted him on the back and gave Eddie, who was waiting beside the car, a thumbs up.
Inside the chopper, the roar was tremendous, and Roc immediately put on his headset. “Ladies and gentlemen, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position, and that your seatbelts are securely fastened at all times during takeoff.” Nick turned and grinned at Roc and Eddie, continuing in a melodious voice. “We know you have an option, and we thank you for choosing Air Play, the Rock of the Sky.” It struck Roc as perhaps not the most reassuring of company slogans. Nick’s spiel reminded him of the ridiculous intros that Eddie used to insist on in the studio when they were cutting tunes in the old days, and he smiled at the memory.
Nick ran over the parachute equipment one more time, and Roc was glad he did. A lot of it sounded as if he’d never heard it before. A few minutes later, they were circling about a half a mile south of the MTV Beach Blast location, waiting for the signal from Uncle, who was on a two-way radio. When the moment came, Roc felt the top of his helmet and ran his shaking hands down the straps on his parachute. His throat was incredibly dry, and tears from the wind blurred his eyes as he tried to find the beach through the surrounding clouds. He wondered briefly how Nick could tell where anything was and how he would know exactly when to tell Roc to jump. Just at that moment, he heard Nick’s voice in his headset. “Okay, flyboy, are you ready for your close-up? You’ll be clear before the chute pops, but don’t worry, it will.”
Eddie had his arm around Roc and was saying something that Roc couldn’t make out, and the next thing he knew he was in the sky in freefall. Moments later, he felt the chute open, and an invisible hand seemed to jerk his body back into place. Instantly he could make out the water and the beach and tiny figures below. He felt a rush of excitement and a strange sense of joy and freedom as he got used to his perspective on the planet. He was short of breath, but it seemed as if the terror of anticipation had been replaced by an unbelievable exhilaration.
The scene below was coming into focus, and he could see the volleyball nets and the little stage where MTV was expecting him to land. He saw camera people moving into position and an excited looking scrum of beach babes and hunks gathering near the stage with its Beach Blast banner flapping in the wind. To one side of the set, he could make out Uncle’s shining dome and beside him Marie — and was that Julie? He felt a smile pressed onto a face that no longer felt like his own as he drifted slowly toward the target. Now he could make out the faces and hear the track for “Swan Dive” booming out of the speakers mounted behind the stage. At that instant he felt himself being yanked again, and his head tipped forward involuntarily. His body jerked back and forth hard before he felt the upward tug of the winch from the chopper. He tried to steady himself and accidentally pulled on one of the lift controls, sending himself wildly to one side. He stretched his arms out to his sides to try to right himself, and he tilted backwards so that he was looking up into his parachute, which seemed to be losing its shape. He could just make out the light blue cable that was attached to him and felt another wild jerk upwards. He straightened out long enough to see the expressions of the people below turning from cheers to surprise as he rapidly ascended. He saw camera operators scrambling to get shots of his departure and Chad Sparx pointing up at him. The rest became a blur as Roc was pulled back into the chopper above the clouds, and he didn’t really have a sense of the drama until watching later on TV. Eddie was madly hauling in the parachute as the hoist took care of Roc’s body, dancing like a marionette below. When he was pulled into the chopper, he felt a disarming dizziness, and all he could do was crawl shivering to the open door and dry heave into the clouds below.
Twenty
Emma walked into the catastrophe known as her dorm room in her usual state of twitchy fatigue after a day spent in lecture halls and a library cubicle. She’d taken a wind-down walk by Sunset Lake on her way back from the College Center but hadn’t taken in much of this windswept fall day. She’d been absorbed in listening to Higher than Heaven with intense interest, something she wouldn’t admit to.
Emma had seen her mother off to Italy in the customary Hurricane Tabbie style — a swirling vortex of arms, scarves, and hair accompanied by broken fragments of instruction and reminders. Tight as the two were, Emma always felt a rush of relief when the taxi drove away, late again. Weirdly, it also gave her more time with the father she’d never met. Lately, she’d been looking him up on various search engines, getting into his music and seeing then not seeing a resemblance in his photos.
Roc’s music was far from anything else she listened to, like Doves, Turin Brakes, or Björk, but it brought her the closest to him, and his new solo record gave her the feeling that she could see into him in a new way.
Tossing her book bag on the bed, she dropped the headphones around her neck and grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge under the desk. She booted up the Mac and yanked an oversized plastic clip from her head. Flyaway slices of sandy hair framed a face that revealed her genetic debts — her father’s cheekbones and her mother’s Chagall-blue eyes. She spun slowly in her chair, decompressing, sipping on her drink, and waited for the Earthlink welcome page to open.
In the midst of her mom’s frenzy, Emma knew she’d been dropping a depth charge into Tabbie’s day when she’d said she wanted to meet her father. She’d tried to explain that she felt this primal urge to go to California. Maybe she should’ve left out the part about taking a semester off from Vassar. She didn’t know when, but it had to be soon.
When the screen came on, she glanced past the first two headlines: “Mars Scandal Paints White House Red” and “Amtrak Worker Admits To Goat Prank,” but the third one stopped her cold. With a catch in her breath, she clicked on “Rocker Vanishes Over Pacific” and found herself staring at a photo of her father and reading “Skyjinks Lead To Tragedy: Roc Molotov, 38, Presumed Dead.” She felt fingers pressing on her throat and moving quickly to her heart as the details unwound. She fought back the burning in her eyes as she clicked on “MTV” from “Favorites.” She watched the footage from that morning’s Beach Blast, followed by host Chad Sparx going on about how uncool death is, man. She stared unblinking, uncomprehending, at the shaky images of the parachute and its occupant flapping and dancing, then receding into the clouds.
Emma refused to accept what she saw and read. She knew she had to go to California, as if by going back those three time zones, she could somehow prevent the inevitability of Roc’s death.
Through her tears, she stabbed at her keyboard. Burbank on Southwest at 9:50 a.m. That would work. She entered her credit card info then closed her eyes, sitting perfectly still as her mind careened wildly. The sky had darkened by the time she sent an email to her mom, knowing it would be received after her departure.
I’ll call you when I get to L.A.
Love,
Em
Twenty-One
A brisk ocean breeze kept blowing out their candles, but a few hundred fans, illuminated by TV lights, huddled together with towels draped over chilly shoulders, spirits undaunted, singing the best-known of Roc Molotov’s songs. The group was getting help with forgotten lyrics from a teleprompter mounted on a volleyball net. In the foreground, Beach Blast host Chad Sparx assumed a sombre tone as he took his cue.
“Wow. Thanks, Cleava, for that exclusive ‘Rocwatch’ report from our Northern Blast Headquarters, like a few hundred miles up the coast in Half Moon Bay. Here in Malibu, dudes and babes alike are really just dealing with the weirdness, asking ‘like how’ and ‘like why’ as we realize how totally uncool death is. And in case you were completely partied out all day and missed it, here’s what happened this morning on Beach Blast when rock legend Roc Molotov was about to drop in. Check it out!”
Uncle and Eddie collapsed in howls of laughter, shouting “totally!” at the same time. Roc, wrapped in a thick sweater and wearing a tired grin, was wedged between them on the old sofa in the lounge of Eddie’s studio. On the TV, the footage of Roc’s descent and ascent played yet again, and he watched with fascination, recalling the bizarre sensation of being suspended over the beach. Boxes of Chinese take-out, glasses, and three mostly empty bottles of Beringer Pinot Noir crowded the well-stained coffee table. Uncle tried to relight one of the three partially smoked cigars in the ashtray, succeeding only in spilling red wine on his cream-coloured caftan.
“Remember the take-out from the Lucky Star on Ventura?” Uncle dug into a box of shrimp chow mein.
Eddie made gagging noises. “That was the place with those gross red balls, right?”
“Nothing an over-the-counter ointment couldn’t take care of,” mumbled a slumping Roc.
Uncle laughed and farted simultaneously while pointing at the screen. “Like how! Like why!” he and Eddie bellowed, falling into each other again like a couple of wasted frat boys. Eddie grabbed the remote and turned it up midway through a “Rocwatch Exclusive” interview with some uncomfortable-looking dude on the set of the show.
“… normally the wind moves a body south.” The shorthaired interview subject wore a windbreaker and a hat with a state logo. He gestured to his right. On the screen he was identified as Glen Claire of the Coast Guard. On MTV, his delivery sounded especially terse, almost military. “But a coastally trapped wind reversal would have carried the body west and out to sea.”
Chad Sparx looked like he was listening to a lecture on the twelfth century origins of papal infallibility but still managed the right question. “But the body would still be happening on the surface, wouldn’t it, man?”
Glen Claire nodded, looking more than a little suspicious of his interviewer. “Except in this case, the weight of the harness could’ve prevented it from floating. It could’ve been lodged in a kelp forest on the sea floor.”
“Hard to fathom, dude,” replied Chad with a spacey expression as he set up the next music break.
Uncle muted the opening chords of “Stop Before I Start,” which seemed to run after every segment of Beach Blast. “Oh man, I gotta pull myself together. I’ve got a suite booked for ten to start the edit on ‘Swan Dive.’ Justin was on my cell screaming for it practically before flyboy here was even back in the chopper. And I’d better buzz by Marie’s; she’ll be flying her bikini top at half-mast in sympathy, and to ignore that gesture would be so wrong.”
Eddie grinned. “Listen, everyone thinks we’re down for repairs, so the place is all Roc’s till whenever, okay? Anytime you want to start recording, just say the word, Rocco.”
But the first-time skydiver was asleep between them, dreaming of watching the dolphins from above.
Twenty-Two
Bobbie sat up blinking in her bed. The TV was still on and the curtains were open enough to admit spikes of sunlight from an unwelcome morning. She swept two empty peanut butter fudge ice cream tubs onto the floor and sank back down as the sickening feelings of the day before returned. It was a while before she realized that the nausea was being accompanied by the repeated ringing of her doorbell. Peering through the window, she spotted a Santa Monica PD cruiser parked in front and heard voices outside the door.
“I’d suggest you zip it, young man. If Ms. Burnette doesn’t assume responsibility for you, very little is going to seem amusing.”
“Ah, hell, officer, I was just funnin’ about borrowin’ your spare uniform. Besides, hillbilly funk don’t last but a month or two.”
Bobbie opened the door a crack against all her better judgment, but after all, it was the law leaning on the buzzer.
“Ms. Bobbie Jean Burnette?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Jeez, Bobbie, you look like you got dragged by a mule down forty miles of bad road, what the …”
The officer shot Delray a silencing glance. “I’m Officer Farina, Santa Monica PD. After receiving a complaint from an elderly patron, Mr. Jackson was apprehended at the Pico Kwik Kleen Laundromat this morning … in his underwear.”
Delray, wrapped in a police blanket, his skinny white legs sticking out of a pair of cowboy boots, flashed Bobbie his best homegrown “you know me” smile, but quickly straightened up as Officer Farina continued. “I’ve taken possession of a hunting knife that Mr. Jackson admits is his. That can be claimed by someone fully dressed at a later date, but for the moment, I understand that this is Mr. Jackson’s temporary residence while he vacations in California.”
Despite this last statement sounding more like a question, Bobbie opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Delray pretended to be distracted by the neighbour starting his lawnmower as the officer handed Bobbie a form. “Okay, Ms. Burnette, just sign here and I’ll be on my way. I’ll leave it to you to explain the difference in wardrobe standards between California and Alabama.” Unwrapping the blanket from an unrepentant Delray, the officer headed for his car. “Good day.”
Waving feebly at her now-curious neighbour, Bobbie allowed Delray to slide past her into the apartment. “Man, that cop made me leave my favourite Wranglers and that brand new Fruit of the Loom v-neck at the damn washeteria. What kinda hospitality is that?” He made for the bathroom while pulling his wedgie back into place. “I mean, who knows where that blanket’s been, right, honey?”
Bobbie glared at Delray as he ceremoniously wrapped a towel around his waist. “Wouldn’t want to frighten you, baby, you look a little wrung out.” He smirked and headed for the kitchen. “What’s on the menu? I need a little something for the old breadbasket, and it’s been slim pickins in that dumpster. I had to bum change ’fore I had enough for a box of Lone Stars.”
“Don’t call me ‘baby,’ you no count lowlife peckerwood. As soon as that cop is outta sight, you’re gonna vaporize and never come back, you hear! Just for the record, what were you doing hangin’ around the washeteria in your skivvies and boots? And what were you thinkin’ tellin’ him you lived here ‘temporarily’? I think your brain is on permanent vacation, you deep-fried lummox.”
“Hmm. Grolsch, what’s that, health food beer, hon?” Delray stood in front of the now-open fridge while Bobbie leaned on the doorframe and tried to collect her thoughts. “Funny-lookin’ beef jerky you got.” He pointed warily at a package of sun-dried tomatoes and winced as he tore a strip of skin off of his finger trying to twist open the beer. “You got any baggy pants I could loan for a bit? I only had but the one pair. ’S why I was half naked at the Kwik Kleen. I wouldn’ve bothered washin’ them, but I fell into the dumpster tryna reach this big ole taco.” He leered at Bobbie and nodded. “Those might do, they look a little generous. I’ll turn th’other way while you slip ’em off, all right, junebug? Just kiddin’.” Delray leered in the direction of Bobbie’s midriff. “Hey, you getting’ a little pooch on you, sweetheart?”
“Delray Jackson, they sure drained the gene pool when you jumped in. Of all days for you to show up at my door. I’ve met pitchforks with more sensitivity.” She closed her eyes and put a hand on her forehead, rubbing slowly.
Genuinely stumped, Delray did his best. “Is it Zippy, that little pet rabbit of yours’ birthday? If it is, I’m sorry, I plum forgot.”
Bobbie hardly knew where to begin. “His name was Flippy, and, no, that’s not it. Have you been sleeping under a truck for the last day?” Delray shrugged guiltily as she stared, seeming to wish to turn him to stone.
“Listen, honey bunny, uh, sorry, I was gonna tell you about my bunkin’ in the ga-rage, but you didn’t give me much of a chance and …”
Her voice came out like a broken whisper. “It’s Roc … he’s dead … and I didn’t say goodbye, I was angry … oh sweet lord, Delray, I don’t know what to do, I …”
“I swear to you on Floppy’s grave, Bobbie Jean Burnette, I did not do it. I was only tryna throw a bit of a scare into him with that little old knife of mine, you gotta believe me. There wasn’t much blood. I wouldn’t …”
“What are you on about, Delray?” she sobbed. “He died in a helicopter accident. It was on the TV and everything.”
Barely managing to hide his delight at this news, Delray tried a little awkward humour. “Sorry, mine’s been on the fritz, baby.” He put his arm around her shoulder while she explained through her tears.
“He was promoting his new record, and it all went wrong. At first, I thought it was part of the stunt, but … oh I just know he wrote that there song for me …” At this point, words wouldn’t come, and Delray did his best to comfort her while he grinned over her shoulder.
“Well, what do you say we step out for a bite of something, june bug? Eating something hot and greasy always picks me right up.” Delray let the towel slip to the floor. “Of course, I’ve always got other ways to make you feel better.”
