The Crossover Brand

By Joseph Schwartz

Two years ago, James Conrad and his brother Rory discovered some fascinating facts about themselves—that they were not of this world; that they were adopted; that a shapeshifter from their “home” world had been sent to kill them; and that the evil behind it all came from the demonic trio known as the Censorum. In the ensuing struggle, the brothers lost their adoptive mother but forged a bond that they believed would never be broken.

Now, two years later, the brothers have gone their separate ways—James as a lone warrior hunting down agents of the Censorum, Rory as an emerging rock and roll star who suddenly finds himself on the run from a new enemy hell bent on his destruction.
And yes, once again the Censorum is at work—plotting to snare both brothers in their corrupt clasp.

“You are the tip of the sword and the hand of justice.” James Conrad hears his father’s commands blast from the radio. Trouble is, his father has been dead for almost twenty years, slain by agents of the Censorum. To avenge his parents’ murder, James embarks on a lonely crusade to kill every last enemy agent. But his mission goes awry when he discovers the true source of those orders and the real voice on the radio.

Meanwhile, Rory is on the road, too, with his band, where he meets a gorgeous groupie with a fatal secret that will get both of them killed if they do not escape from the agents of the Censorum.

The Crossover Brand takes James and Rory on their separate, bizarre and violent road trips across the American West, in the course of which they will each accelerate through an assortment of colorful characters both human and supernatural, power through perilous, threatening twists and negotiate deadly turns, finally coming together for a showdown with the Censorum at an eerie carnival and cross an horrific finish line atop a mystical Arizona mountain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joseph Schwartz
• Release date: Apr 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9780985114732

Joseph Schwartz

Joseph Schwartz was born in Havre, Montana, and lived in the small farming town of Brady until he was old enough for pre-school. With enough furnishings to fill a small moving van, his family made the two-day trip to Phoenix, Arizona. He has made his home in and around Phoenix ever since.Since then, he has made that drive on several road trips with his brothers and father.The Crossover Test was his first novel, inspired from that trip through the sublime landscape of Arizona, Utah, Idaho, Wyoming (sometimes), Nevada (sometimes), and finally Montana. Along the way, his mind took its own drive, to other places, other worlds, but never too far from his family.The Crossover Brand is his second novel, following the further adventures of the Conrad brothers as they defend themselves against the continuing onslaught of the supernatural forces they have vowed to fight -- and this time the action takes the boys eventually to Arizona, where they both reach the ragged edge of their abilities when they face the three Judges of the Censorum.His writing aside, Joe Schwartz's other passion is teaching language, which he has been doing in secondary schools since 2013.He lives with his family in Phoenix.

Book preview

The Crossover Brand

A Supernatural Thriller

By

Joseph J. Schwartz

The Crossover Brand

© 2014 Jerome Joseph Publishing and Joseph J. Schwartz. All rights reserved.

Ebook ISBN-13: 978-0-9851147-3-2

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior express written permission of Jerome Joseph Publishing and/or the copyright owner.

Published by Jerome Joseph Publishing, Phoenix, Arizona

thecrossovertest.com

All correspondence to the publisher should be addressed to:

149 East Voltaire Ave.

Phoenix, AZ 85022;

Email: [e-mail]

To Richard

Acknowledgments

Thanks to these generous souls who made this story possible:

• Rob, my Brother in the East, who knows James and Rory better than anyone.

• Tony, the artisan of the premise, the setup, and the punchline.

• Isabel, who brings grace and intelligence to the story.

• To all the co-conspirators in the back room of the Armadillo Grill.

• To Paul, for his patience and dedication.

• And, most of all, to Lauren, who knows the power of a single word.

Contents

Title

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

About the Author

Also by Joseph J. Schwartz

Chapter 1

Ellire touched the pane of glass to test it against her hand. It should have been safe to stand against the window, so high above the ground floor. If she forced all her weight against the surface, it should hold her in place. It should prevent her from tumbling ten stories to the sidewalk below.

But she didn’t believe it. The man behind her made it impossible for her to believe that she would leave this room alive. Frozen in place, she closed her eyes, shutting out her view of the Kansas City skyline, but it did not stop the terror that soon, very soon, she would be passing through the window.

I didn’t hear an answer, the man whispered.

I think I saw him, Ellire said. I see a lot of faces.

Given your line of work, I believe that to be true. Should I show you the photos again? Stay there, I’ll bring them to you.

The tap-tap-tap of his shoes sounded from the cement floor and echoed off the empty office room. The man returned and slapped the photograph against the glass, mere inches from her face. The glass quivered and Ellire opened her eyes, staring upon the live-action, black and white photograph of a thirty-something- year-old rock star, sweaty shoulder-length hair, thin frame, his face scowling, his hands grasping an electric guitar. The scrawl at the bottom of the photo read: Keep it crazy—Rory Gory.

I’m pretty sure I saw him last year, while he was on tour. Ellire said, closing her eyes again.

Very good. Tell me about him.

He was cute and funny, very talented, a little egotistical.

What did the two of you do?

Let’s see. We discussed politics and baked cookies, then we cuddled the whole night until we fell asleep in each other’s arms. What do you think we did?

The man removed the photo from the glass and returned it to the table behind them. Keep facing forward, thank you. Did he boast of powers?

What do you mean, like music?

Did you witness any proof that he is a crossover with wildly powerful talents? Any bending, breaking, shrinking, expanding, teleporting, or displays of pyrotechnical wizardry?

I wish. That would have been better than sex. Although he wasn’t half bad. He tried to take care of a girl, if you know what I mean. Ellire tried to get a better look at the monotone-voiced man, more than the slick dark hair and thousand dollar suit and leather shoes. But he was again closing in, so Ellire faced front. The man in the suit stood right behind her, close enough to cover the back of her neck with his hot breath.

When he was in you, the suit man said, the words oozing from his mouth, thrusting, sweating, grunting like a mongoloid, did you feel any potency within him?

I felt his shlong, if that’s what you mean. She felt the man’s thick hands on her hips and down her waist, then crawling into her pockets until they found the object of their search. She felt his breath exhale on her neck, covering it in a wet bag of heat. His breath reeked of cheap after-shave. Jesus, she thought, does he gargle the shit?

Did Margolla send you? the man asked, removing the shot glass from her pocket. He held it up to her eye level and tapped it three times against the window.

Marg-who?

You know who. Is this the way you kept in touch with her? Is this the way she watches your every move? I envy her. The hands returned to her hips and thrust the shot glass back into the front pocket.

Ellire felt another hot blast of breath in her ears. She cleared her throat. I don’t work for her any longer. I’m my own boss and my own employee.

So you’ve got a brand new life for yourself. A healer, not a hooker?

Are you done with me, ’cause I really do have to go to the bathroom.

Soon. Just one more question. Can I touch you? Do you mind?

That’s two questions. And no, you may not. Ellire braced herself for the next touch. She expected it anywhere on her body. She pressed her face, her breasts, her hands against the cold smoothness of the glass. Her breath formed a blurry layer of fog near her mouth.

You don’t trust me, he said, his voice now directly above her head. That makes me sad.

Ellire closed her eyes and held her breath, waiting for his hands. But they didn’t come. Instead, she felt something on her hands, though no flesh-to-flesh contact was made between her and the man behind her. A wave of energy spread from her arms to her shoulders, a warmth that felt like it would lift her from the floor and loosen the tension in her neck. It felt like bliss, and it was most unwelcome. It felt like the touch of a lover, and it was coming from inside her core.

Your fingers, he continued, so light, flirtatious, yet steady and certain. You have the touch of a virtuoso. Your instrument...

Fighting off the spiritual invasion, Ellire tried to focus on an image, keeping the force away from her core. Puppies? No. The face of her mother? She couldn’t remember it. She needed an image of courage and wisdom, forever carved in metal or stone. Statue of Liberty? Too feminine. The fingers crawled lower down her body, invigorating every chakra along the way. Any second, it would ignite the lowest one, and she would be in sensual overload. Every pure thought would inevitably lead to sex, and if she did resist this growing pleasure, she would answer any and all questions. She settled on Mount Rushmore and the face of Thomas Jefferson. No, that won’t work. He boinked his slaves.

Your gift, he continued, is to heal. Did you heal this Rory Gory, long before he defiled you?

I did. Teddy Roosevelt? The mustache would tickle her mouth . . .

Three years ago?

Yes. But he wasn’t Rory Gory then. He was just Rory, just a nobody. She settled on George Washington. Nothing sexy about false teeth, thin lips, and a powdered wig.

Did you sense his power then?

She ground her teeth, dreading the man’s response. I don’t know anything about that. She heard a heavy breath from the man, then the window glass suddenly warped against her weight. She forgot about the glass in the window.

Where is Margolla? the man asked again.

I thought we were talking about . . . She didn’t know where to focus—on the invisible hand crawling toward her pleasure zone or on the glass that was about to break. She was becoming disoriented from the maddening juxtaposition of the anticipation of sex and the threat of death.

The man pressed himself behind Ellire, forcing her body against the glass, which was now bending it to an unstable degree. Where is she?

A hand gripped the back of her neck and flattened her face against the windowpane. She gasped, Gone.

What do you mean, ‘gone’?

No, not gone. Hiding, that’s what I mean. Please let go.

Where is she hiding?

If she’s hiding, how would I know?

We believe you know. Another hand pushed against the small of her back. One more hard press and the glass would shatter; Ellire would be in free-fall.

Yes. Get your hands off me! The unearthly warmth within her began to fade. Please.

Of course. We mean no harm. We want only what is best for you and others like you. This world must benefit from your extraordinary talents. You must go out into this world and face humanity. No more hiding for you.

Then why are you still holding me?

Am I?

Where are the others? Your bosses. The three amigos?

Thank you for asking, he said, his voice now cracking. But they are here. You are here. And they are waiting.

Waiting? Oh God. Here it comes. Mother, help me to be strong. Wait for what? Wait for what? You better tell me, you wicked bastard! Her fingers spread against the glass. The force within her was gone now, making her feel heavier.

They wait for you. They’re patient.

Release. The hands on her back were suddenly gone. Ellire took a deep breath and began to carefully push away from the window. As she did so, she heard a tink sound and felt a faint vibration on her fingers. Near her right hand, where the man had tapped three times with the brim of her shot glass, a crooked line appeared, followed by another, then another, until the window was filled with an intricate spider web of cracks branching in every direction. She closed her eyes. Wait. Not yet.

GodohGodohGodoh!

The glass gave way. Ellire fell forward and down, leaving fragments of her flesh on the border of broken glass. Covered in a cloud of shards, she closed her eyes and felt the cool wind on her face. Then a gale. She thought of her mother. Maybe the old gal would be overjoyed to finally see her daughter again. Maybe not. She couldn’t remember anything about her mother.

She opened her eyes. The pavement closed in.

Chapter 2

Amarillo

At the entrance to the dilapidated tire store, James Conrad stood and stared. The employees hid behind the rolling tool cabinets, gutted auto bodies and one rusted old truck. He counted four men, their eyes burned from sun, sweat and weed. The stoned banditos would be slow to react, yet eager to reach for their guns and fire away at the orange-haired gringo who had the huevos to interfere with their work. How many thugs could James drop before he was hit? Unknown, he thought. Smack dab in the center of the kill zone, just as he and his partner had expected.

His left hand felt like it was on fire, pierced by hundreds of invisible needles signaling him that his target was near. The only things standing in the way of this mission, his first mission with a partner, were the four thugs who pretended to be mechanics. Are there more outside and in the neighborhood? James counted on it.

Four in here, James said to his partner. Maybe more in the back. No response. Kestrel was gone. The scene was fouled up and going to hell in a hurry, just as he expected, just as he had experienced on several occasions. His response was to act like he didn’t give a shit. Better make it believable.

Smirking at the mechanics, James stuck a piece of gum in his mouth, rolled up the wrapper and tossed it to the floor. For good measure, he lowered the brim of his cowboy hat, removed his shades and placed them in his jacket pocket. For better measure, he held up his U.S. Marshal’s badge in one hand, then unbuttoned his jacket with the other hand, exposing a holstered Beretta. Señor Walsh? James said to the mechanics. ¿Dónde está? Where is he?

Better question . . . where is Kestrel?

The mechanic to his left, behind a tool cabinet, shook his head and said, Mister Walsh not here. His hands were too close to a cabinet drawer for James’s comfort.

I won’t ask again. James rested his hand on the gun’s handle. And keep your hands at your side amigo.

In here. The voice came from Kestrel, who must have entered the front door and found Walsh in his office. She was improvising again. James muttered a curse beneath his breath and crossed into the office from the garage side, his eyes on the mechanics and their hands. He shut the door behind him when a voice from the garage said, Pinches gringos with bullshit badges.

James slammed open the door. Who said that?

Only one man stared back. He would be the first to draw his weapon—and the first to be shot. As soon as that man disappeared under the hood, James reentered the office.

Slats of morning sunshine slanted through the window blinds and lit the dust motes as they scattered about the room. Liza Kestrel stood at the front of a desk littered with Styrofoam cups, beer cans, and a thin layer of cigarette ash over a thick layer of Texas dust. Behind the desk a middle-aged man slouched in his chair, rubbing the filter of a cigarette. His cloudy eyes darted from Kestrel to James, then to the door leading to the garage. James stood at the door to keep an eye on the thugs.

Mr. Walsh? Kestrel asked.

Who the devil are you? Walsh took a drag, exhaled.

Easy there Walsh. I’m Deputy Marshall Liza Kestrel, and this is Deputy Marshall James Conrad. We have a warrant for your arrest. Kestrel brandished her badge, then dropped the warrant on the desk, scattering ash and dust. James held up his badge at the same time, suddenly feeling exposed. Walsh was looking at him as if he was an undercover cop in a drug nest. It was only a matter of time before James would hear that familiar tagline: I seen you before.

Kestrel ordered Walsh to raise his arms from the desk, then ordered James to cuff him. James obeyed. He crossed to the desk, grabbed Walsh’s wrists, thrust them down and behind his back, and cuffed him. The pain in James’s hand throbbed with more frequency and intensity. Once the target was neutralized, that pain would go away, but it would return with a new set of orders for a new target.

What’d I do? Walsh asked.

Sold drugs, you piece of shit, Kestrel said as James shot her a glare. Tell your slugs not to do anything stupid. Tell them to stay put, she said to Walsh. Voices rose from the garage.

Hombres! Walsh shouted to the garage. Quédate ahí. Llamar a mi esposa y mi abogado.

Your wife and your lawyer? Kestrel asked. You’ll need more than that.

Why? Walsh asked. Where are you taking me? I have rights. Hey, that reminds me. You didn’t read me my Miranda—

Walsh never finished his question. Kestrel punched him right in the balls and Walsh doubled over, moaning, gasping, spitting curses and a shoestring of saliva.

We’ll get to your rights in good time, Kestrel said. See that car outside? She pointed to a two-door Dodge Avenger parked ready for a getaway, right outside the office door. James noticed a truck on the opposite side of the street. That truck was not there five minutes ago.

That car is going to take all of us downtown, Kestrel said. You can call anyone you want, including your filthy lawyer and cunty wife.

Walsh mumbled, Mother . . . ow . . . fuckers . . . ow.

James spotted a figure behind the truck across the street. He nodded for Kestrel to look and she nodded in reply.

Just one? she asked James.

As far as I can tell, James said. He was surrounded again, just like that mountaintop in Afghanistan twelve years ago, only this time he was fully conscious. So much for the I-don’t-give-a-shit response. Time to play this one smart. We’re not leaving yet.

Why not?

We’re surrounded.

You worry too much, Conrad.

Maybe so. With a gunman across the street, gunmen in the garage, and the probability of a Texas-style ambush coming from the alley on the other side of the office, James drew his Beretta, tapped it, racked it, and stood in the corner of the brick wall. He and his new partner were not going to be blown to hell before they made it into her car. One step outside and the crossfire would rain down like a hailstorm, and all in Walsh’s neighborhood.

Kestrel drew her automatic pistol. Then you and the drug dealer stay inside and play while the adults take care of business. She left through the door to the garage . . .

Goddam bitch left me again.

. . . and mere seconds later, came in from the front door, unharmed, pistol holstered, yet covering her face and forehead in the crook of her arm. With her other hand holding the door open, she said, Let’s go.

James stood by the door, his hands still gripping his firearm and pointing it to the ceiling. What happened to your face?

Just a scratch. Relax Conrad. I got the insect across the street and all of the ones in the garage. Holster your firearm. That’s an order.

I’ll be damned . . . what about the back of the building?

All clear. Just get in the car. You drive.

James holstered his Beretta. After escorting Walsh through the door and placing him in the back of the Avenger, Kestrel tossed the keys over and slid into the front passenger side seat. James opened the door, scanning the garage a final time.

No sign of the banditos. James looked across the street and spotted the pickup, then spotted the body on the concrete next to a large pool of red that oozed down to the asphalt. He imagined the floor of the garage soaking in engine oil and thug blood, yet the only blot on Kestrel’s white shirt were pit stains of sweat.

Conrad! she screeched. I’m going to punch you in the balls if you don’t get us out of here.

James got in, closed the door, and started the engine, speeding away in a cloud of gravel and dust. His left hand still screamed in hot pain as he clutched the steering wheel. Where to?

River Road north, east on 87, north at the train tracks. Keep your eyes on the road Conrad, not on me.

After the train tracks?

The desert, she said, gaining control over her breathing while keeping her face hidden from James. You dig the hole.

I knew it! Walsh cried as he squirmed on the seat. You ain’t no Marshals. You’re nothin’ but hired killers. Did Fuentes send you? Tell him I can get his money in no time. Let me make some calls, that’s all I ask.

Fuentes didn’t send us, Kestrel said as James tilted the rear-view mirror to get a better view of her face.

Huh? Walsh stammered. That don’t make no sense.

We don’t work for any Fuentes. Kestrel said, still covering her face.

Who do you work for?

You have no idea, Kestrel boasted. Insects like you never heard of these guys.

Please, Walsh begged. My youngest kid’s got a birthday soon and I would like to celebrate it with her. Please, don’t let my babies be orphans.

The car was silent for a few seconds, so Walsh tried again.

Lemme pay you. I’ll make some calls, we make a few visits, then you two got a shitload of cash in your pockets. When he didn’t hear an answer, Walsh tried a new tactic, this time on James. You know something? You look familiar. Were you in Puerto Penasco last year?

Nope, James answered.

You got kids?

I got a son. James wished Walsh’s pain would return and shut him up. Why?

You act like a man who’s got a kid. But you also act like you don’t never care to see him again. Can’t tell which is the lie.

Any other time, James would have knocked out any asshole who said anything resembling that comment. Hell, he would have knocked out any piece of shit who asked him the time of day. Walsh’s observation hit a mark. James repositioned the rear-view mirror to point it away from Walsh. He clicked his seat belt in place. He braked.

The Avenger screeched to a halt and Kestrel braced herself against the dash, then lurched back when the car stopped, momentarily revealing the right side of her face that looked like it was covered in dark red talons. Walsh shot forward and crashed into the back of the front seat. Just as Walsh was about to open his mouth, James thrust his elbow into the drug dealer’s forehead and Walsh fell unconscious. James turned to Kestrel. Sorry about that. He floored the accelerator. Got tired of his mouth.

Jesus Christ Conrad! Kestrel covered her face and rolled her neck. Warn me next time.

Fair enough. But let me know next time you plan on showing off.

Kestrel made no response.

What the hell was that back there?

It’s called a quickening, you ignorant ape. While you and Walsh were sharing a tender moment, I was clearing the way for our exit and saving your ass. You’re welcome.

Is that why you’re hiding your face? It’s an improvement.

Brutes like you don’t have the finesse for it.

Fuck your finesse, James said. You need to communicate with your partner. Tell me what you’re doing and when you’re doing it.

You and I are not partners, not until I say so. You need to know something else Conrad. You know nothing about me. She lowered her hand to finally reveal her face, which was covered in crimson branches spreading from her chin to her forehead, as if her capillaries had burst beneath the surface of her skin. Do you understand?

Yes, sir.

Had he met Kestrel when he was younger, she would have been the starting point guard of the James Conrad Future All Fuck Team. In his maturity, he loathed her straight hair, sharp nose and narrow chin. But mostly he feared his commander, especially now that her face was suddenly bruised to look like a bolt of lightning, a side effect of a power that he was unable to figure out. Better play this one like an Einstein. I’m not getting my head blown off because you decide to show off your dick, he said. That’s what you need to know about me.

I think we both need to shut up before we do something we both regret. She covered her face again.

James knew the meaning of ‘we’ and he nodded in obedience. He could be digging a hole for two if he didn’t watch his ass or his mouth.

The throb in his hand still pounded. Once this mission was accomplished, the pain in his non-shooting hand would take a break until he received the orders for the next mission. Pain, rest, pain, rest. The cycle would never cease, not until the war, or James, was finished.

Unlike the sledgehammer headaches from three years ago, this unearthly pain gave him purpose. It pointed him in the right direction, renewed and refocused and stronger than ever.

The Avenger soon turned north and followed the Burlington Northern Santa Fe railroad. After a few miles, it veered east into desert.

Chapter 3

Salt Lake City

Rory stared out the window and into the dull orange light of the parking lot. It was the same light he remembered from the last time he was here, three years ago. The memories of the Solace Inn Motel lurked within the new paint and the new carpet, hiding there long before he became the lead guitar player in a rock band with a hit CD, long before he was given his stage name—Rory Gory. He despised the sound of that word. Gory. It reminded him of something cheap and amateurish and tacky, though it accurately depicted his rise to stardom and talent level of his band. Amnesia Stain.

But this night would not be about artistic principles; it was about finding something in this room and awakening a memory long forgotten.

Such as the fuzzy face of his dog. Such as a bottle of whiskey that ruined three years of sobriety. Such as firing his brother’s gun into his brother’s pickup, killing his brother’s radio. Most of all, he remembered his brother, James Conrad.

Bogie was soon in view through the window as he crossed through the parking lot, straight for Rory’s motel room. Rory nodded and half-smiled at the rigidly straight path his manager walked, head down, hands forever clutching his briefcase, his grey mullet straggling behind his neck. Bogie led a pack of groupies who bounced off each other in giddy, drunken exuberance. One stumbled on her ass, another broke out in laughter, and Bogie shouted obscenities as Rory pulled the girl to her feet and practically dragged her to the motel room.

Is that all you could get? he said to himself, I asked for five. But Rory could not contain his excitement. Maybe this would be the night he would awaken his power. If three drunken groupies would not do the trick, he would try drunken cowboys or drunken sailors or drunken men dressed as cowboys and sailors—anything to get his power back.

Rory opened the door before Bogie had a chance to knock. CNN chatter from the television spilled into the parking lot. The girls hushed each other, except for one who burst out in sloppy laughter. Bogie shot her a scowl and she silenced herself. Well boss, here they are, he said to Rory. Hot and fresh, just as you ordered. And yes, they’re all legal. I checked their IDs. When do you want them out of here?

I’ll call you, Rory said. Are you going to be at the bar or on the bus?

What do you think?

Hey, relax. We’re rock and roll stars, remember?

You’re the star, remember? I’m the asshole who gets to clean up the shit afterwards. Don’t laugh. I literally mean shit.

That’s Scamp. He makes up for the rest of the band, Rory said. The Laughing Groupie almost fell down again.

Bogie said between chuckles, Get in here girls and hand me your cell phones and any recording devices. It’s your ticket to see a world famous rock star.

The girls bounced into the motel room, dropping their cell phones into Bogie’s briefcase. He closed the case and said to the girls, Remember. Rory Gory makes no private phone calls. Just clean, plain fun. As the groupies began to huddle and roll on the queen-sized bed, Bogie gestured for Rory to meet him outside. Hey, buddy, don’t shit me on this one. Are you up for this? There’s a lot of ass in that room. You know what happened in Colorado Springs. You’re getting a reputation.

Is that so?

They’re saying you’re not a team player, having your own party at a hotel room, not inviting the rest of the band . . .

Maybe I don’t like to share. Maybe the bus makes me claustrophobic.

There’s more. They’re saying you can’t, you know . . . Bogie pointed to the sky.

They’re saying I can’t point?

Well, yeah. They’re saying you don’t act like a lead guitar. Straight, gay, whatever. I got some pills. Might do the trick.

Rory ran his hands over his hair. It’s not what you think. My pencil points harder and straighter than anyone in this band. Look at Scamp. He’s on his own outer plane of Assaholia. Do you know I can’t even talk to him because he’s a drugged-out prim donna who doesn’t hear a goddam thing, on or off the stage? He’s the lead singer.

But he’s not getting complaints. Nobody but you.

What are they saying?

"That you’re the scariest kind of crazy, even for a rock star. Look, you pay me to tell you the truth. And since you’re the only one who listens to me, let me lay it on without any crap. If you’re going to be a star, you need to be smart, on and off the stage. If you’re going to be smart, you need to see what’s going on around you. You ever read Emerson?"

Of course.

So I don’t have to remind you about being the eyeball that sees and hears everything.

Did Emerson mix metaphors too?

Prick. You know what I mean.

I do. Thanks Bogie. You got my back. Just like James.