Live Wire
Page 32
Fishman played his part with the perfection of a sociopath. He asked her if she wanted to meet up again. She said yes. Myron nodded at Fishman. Fishman said, “Okay, cool, I’ll come to your place. Where do you live?”
“That won’t work,” Kitty said.
“Why not?”
And then Kitty whispered something that made Myron’s heart freeze: “My son is around.”
Fishman was good. He said that he could take a rain check, just drop off the “package,” whatever she wanted, but Kitty was equally cagey. They ended up agreeing to meet near the merry-go-round at the Garden State Plaza Mall in Paramus. Myron checked his watch. He’d have enough time to talk to Evelyn Stackman about the symbol on the “Not His” post and then be back to see Kitty.
Myron wondered what he would do when that happened—when he met up with Kitty. Should he jump out and confront her? Ask her gentle questions? Or maybe not show up at all. Maybe the best move was to have Fishman cancel after she showed up so that he could follow her home.
Half an hour later, Myron parked the car in front of a modest brick cape off Lemoine Avenue in Fort Lee. Big Cyndi stayed in the car and fiddled with her iPod. Myron headed up the walk. Evelyn Stackman had the door opened before Myron could even ring the bell. She looked to be fiftyish with curled frizz that reminded him of Barbra Streisand in A Star Is Born.
“Ms. Stackman? I’m Myron Bolitar. Thank you for seeing me.”
She invited him inside. The living room had a worn green sofa, an upright piano of light cherry wood, and posters of HorsePower concerts. One was from their first show at the Hollywood Bowl more than two decades ago. The poster was signed by both Lex Ryder and Gabriel Wire. The inscription—in Gabriel’s handwriting—read, “To Horace and Evelyn, You Both Rock.”
“Wow,” Myron said.
“I’ve been offered ten thousand dollars for it. I could use the money but . . .” She stopped. “I Googled you. I don’t follow basketball, so I didn’t know your name.”
“That was a long time ago anyway.”
“But you now manage Lex Ryder?”
“I’m an agent. It’s slightly different. But, yes, I work with him.”
She mulled that over. “Follow me.” She led him to the steps heading down to the basement. “My husband, Horace. He was the real fan.”
The small finished basement had a ceiling so low Myron could not stand upright. There was a gray futon and an old television on a fiberglass black stand. The rest of the basement was, well, HorsePower. A fold-out table, the kind you might put out when your dining room table couldn’t handle all your family, was covered with all things HorsePower—photographs, album covers, files of sheet music, concert advertisements, guitar picks, drumsticks, shirts, dolls. Myron recognized a black shirt with snap buttons.
“Gabriel actually wore that during a concert in Houston,” she said.
There were two fold-out chairs. Myron saw several photographs of “Wire sightings” from the tabloids.
“I’m sorry it’s such a mess. After the whole Alista Snow tragedy, well, Horace was heartbroken. He used to study the paparazzi sightings of Gabriel. See, Horace was an engineer. He was so good with math and puzzles.” She gestured toward the tabloids. “They’re all fake.”
“What do you mean?”
“Horace always found a way to prove the images weren’t really Gabriel. Like this one. Gabriel Wire had a scar on the back of his right hand. Horace got the original negative and blew it up. There was no scar. On this one he ran a mathematical equation—don’t ask me to explain how—and figured that this man was wearing a size ten shoe. Gabriel Wire has a size twelve.”
Myron nodded, said nothing.
“It must seem weird. This obsession.”
“No, not really.”
“Other men follow a sports team or go to the racetrack or collect stamps. Horace loved HorsePower.”
“How about you?”
Evelyn smiled. “I was a fan, I guess. But not like Horace. It was something we did together. We camped out for concerts. We would turn the lights low and listen and try to come up with the real meaning behind the lyrics. It might not sound like much, but I’d give anything for one more night like that.”
A shadow crossed her face. Myron wondered whether he should go there and then decided, yes, maybe he should.
“What happened to Horace?” he asked.
“He died this past January,” she said, a small choke in her voice. “Heart attack. He had it crossing the street. People thought a car hit him. But Horace just fell in the crosswalk and died. Just like that. Gone. He was only fifty-three. We were high school sweethearts. Raised two kids in this house. We made plans for our old age. I’d just retired from my job at the post office, so we could travel more.”
She flashed a quick “what can you do” smile and looked away. We all have our scars and torment and ghosts. We all walk around and smile and pretend everything is okay. We are polite to strangers and share the road with them and stand in line at the supermarket and we manage to disguise the hurt and desperation. We work hard and make plans and more often than not, that all goes to hell.
“I’m really sorry for your loss,” Myron said.
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“It’s okay.”
“I know I should get rid of this stuff. Sell it. But I just can’t yet.”
Not knowing what to say, Myron went with a classic: “I understand.”
She managed a smile. “But, really, you want to know about the symbol.”
“If you don’t mind.”
Evelyn Stackman crossed the room and opened up the filing cabinet. “Horace tried to figure out what it meant. He looked up Sanskrit and Chinese and hieroglyphics, things like that. But he could never place it.”
“Where did you first see it?”
“The symbol?” Evelyn reached into the cabinet and pulled out what appeared to be the cover for a CD. “Did you know about this album?”
Myron looked at it. It was the artwork, if that was what you called it, for an album cover. He had never seen it. On the top it read, “LIVE WIRE.” Then under that in smaller print, HORSEPOWER LIVE AT MADISON SQUARE GARDEN. But that wasn’t what drew your eye. Under the letters was a strange photograph of Gabriel Wire and Lex Ryder. The shot was from the waist up, both shirtless, back-to-back with their arms folded. Lex was on the left, Gabriel on the right, both turning to look at their prospective music buyer with serious glares.
“That won’t work,” Kitty said.
“Why not?”
And then Kitty whispered something that made Myron’s heart freeze: “My son is around.”
Fishman was good. He said that he could take a rain check, just drop off the “package,” whatever she wanted, but Kitty was equally cagey. They ended up agreeing to meet near the merry-go-round at the Garden State Plaza Mall in Paramus. Myron checked his watch. He’d have enough time to talk to Evelyn Stackman about the symbol on the “Not His” post and then be back to see Kitty.
Myron wondered what he would do when that happened—when he met up with Kitty. Should he jump out and confront her? Ask her gentle questions? Or maybe not show up at all. Maybe the best move was to have Fishman cancel after she showed up so that he could follow her home.
Half an hour later, Myron parked the car in front of a modest brick cape off Lemoine Avenue in Fort Lee. Big Cyndi stayed in the car and fiddled with her iPod. Myron headed up the walk. Evelyn Stackman had the door opened before Myron could even ring the bell. She looked to be fiftyish with curled frizz that reminded him of Barbra Streisand in A Star Is Born.
“Ms. Stackman? I’m Myron Bolitar. Thank you for seeing me.”
She invited him inside. The living room had a worn green sofa, an upright piano of light cherry wood, and posters of HorsePower concerts. One was from their first show at the Hollywood Bowl more than two decades ago. The poster was signed by both Lex Ryder and Gabriel Wire. The inscription—in Gabriel’s handwriting—read, “To Horace and Evelyn, You Both Rock.”
“Wow,” Myron said.
“I’ve been offered ten thousand dollars for it. I could use the money but . . .” She stopped. “I Googled you. I don’t follow basketball, so I didn’t know your name.”
“That was a long time ago anyway.”
“But you now manage Lex Ryder?”
“I’m an agent. It’s slightly different. But, yes, I work with him.”
She mulled that over. “Follow me.” She led him to the steps heading down to the basement. “My husband, Horace. He was the real fan.”
The small finished basement had a ceiling so low Myron could not stand upright. There was a gray futon and an old television on a fiberglass black stand. The rest of the basement was, well, HorsePower. A fold-out table, the kind you might put out when your dining room table couldn’t handle all your family, was covered with all things HorsePower—photographs, album covers, files of sheet music, concert advertisements, guitar picks, drumsticks, shirts, dolls. Myron recognized a black shirt with snap buttons.
“Gabriel actually wore that during a concert in Houston,” she said.
There were two fold-out chairs. Myron saw several photographs of “Wire sightings” from the tabloids.
“I’m sorry it’s such a mess. After the whole Alista Snow tragedy, well, Horace was heartbroken. He used to study the paparazzi sightings of Gabriel. See, Horace was an engineer. He was so good with math and puzzles.” She gestured toward the tabloids. “They’re all fake.”
“What do you mean?”
“Horace always found a way to prove the images weren’t really Gabriel. Like this one. Gabriel Wire had a scar on the back of his right hand. Horace got the original negative and blew it up. There was no scar. On this one he ran a mathematical equation—don’t ask me to explain how—and figured that this man was wearing a size ten shoe. Gabriel Wire has a size twelve.”
Myron nodded, said nothing.
“It must seem weird. This obsession.”
“No, not really.”
“Other men follow a sports team or go to the racetrack or collect stamps. Horace loved HorsePower.”
“How about you?”
Evelyn smiled. “I was a fan, I guess. But not like Horace. It was something we did together. We camped out for concerts. We would turn the lights low and listen and try to come up with the real meaning behind the lyrics. It might not sound like much, but I’d give anything for one more night like that.”
A shadow crossed her face. Myron wondered whether he should go there and then decided, yes, maybe he should.
“What happened to Horace?” he asked.
“He died this past January,” she said, a small choke in her voice. “Heart attack. He had it crossing the street. People thought a car hit him. But Horace just fell in the crosswalk and died. Just like that. Gone. He was only fifty-three. We were high school sweethearts. Raised two kids in this house. We made plans for our old age. I’d just retired from my job at the post office, so we could travel more.”
She flashed a quick “what can you do” smile and looked away. We all have our scars and torment and ghosts. We all walk around and smile and pretend everything is okay. We are polite to strangers and share the road with them and stand in line at the supermarket and we manage to disguise the hurt and desperation. We work hard and make plans and more often than not, that all goes to hell.
“I’m really sorry for your loss,” Myron said.
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“It’s okay.”
“I know I should get rid of this stuff. Sell it. But I just can’t yet.”
Not knowing what to say, Myron went with a classic: “I understand.”
She managed a smile. “But, really, you want to know about the symbol.”
“If you don’t mind.”
Evelyn Stackman crossed the room and opened up the filing cabinet. “Horace tried to figure out what it meant. He looked up Sanskrit and Chinese and hieroglyphics, things like that. But he could never place it.”
“Where did you first see it?”
“The symbol?” Evelyn reached into the cabinet and pulled out what appeared to be the cover for a CD. “Did you know about this album?”
Myron looked at it. It was the artwork, if that was what you called it, for an album cover. He had never seen it. On the top it read, “LIVE WIRE.” Then under that in smaller print, HORSEPOWER LIVE AT MADISON SQUARE GARDEN. But that wasn’t what drew your eye. Under the letters was a strange photograph of Gabriel Wire and Lex Ryder. The shot was from the waist up, both shirtless, back-to-back with their arms folded. Lex was on the left, Gabriel on the right, both turning to look at their prospective music buyer with serious glares.
