Angels on Sunset Boulevard (5 page)

But Taj would never want to live there. What was Beverly Hills anyway but the glorified kingdom of cosmetic dentists and plastic surgeons and retired Republican donors? It was no place for her and Johnny. Not that there was a “her and Johnny” anymore.

Finally the bus deposited her on the outskirts of campus in Westwood. She unhooked the straps that held her board to her backpack, kicked it to the sidewalk, and glided down the stone footpaths toward the music building. The first week of January all the college kids were still on semester break, and the place was blank and desolate, atypically gloomy for Los Angeles.

Taj had taken over Johnny's show.
Johnny Silver's Manic Hour
became so much more popular than the college kid's he was filling in for that he got the gig full-time.

When he'd signed to the label, he hadn't wanted to give up his show. But his popularity took off and who better to take the slot than Johnny's girlfriend? So she'd volunteered to take it over, to keep house while they waited for Johnny to return. The job was easy enough, even though it was a pain to get to.

The college radio station was located in the basement of the music building in three small shabby
rooms: an office and two broadcasting studios. There was a ground-level window that attracted the random curious onlooker and a nightly check by the campus police to make sure the kids weren't using the space to hook up or throw parties.

Stacks of CDs were lined up neatly on shelves, and there were several crates of old vinyl records. Two CD players, a turntable, and a computer filled with MP3s were hooked up to the system. The crew at the station was in the middle of transferring all the music to digital files, and soon being a DJ would be just as simple as putting an iTunes list together.

Taj settled into the rickety leather office chair, put on the Bose headphones, clicked on the computer screen, and played Johnny's signature opening: “Hallelujah,” by Jeff Buckley.
“I heard there was a secret chord that David played and it pleased the Lord …”

As the song came to a warbling close, she whispered into the microphone, “This is Taj Holder in for Johnny Silver. This one is for Johnny, wherever you are …”

As usual ever since Johnny had vanished, as soon as she finished, the phone lines lit up and the computer screen began popping with a dozen IM messages.

His fans.

celestialgdess:
where he at taj? lighting a candle for johnny …

dingorider:
peace&luv forever … Johnny silver rules!

sadboy22:
7 days and counting … miss u Johnny …

She let the songs play automatically from his list; she knew what they wanted, those kids waiting in the dark for their songs. Johnny's show didn't play at parties up in the Palisades, or for kids cruising Sunset—it was for the ones like Taj was once. Those who were stuck at home with headphones on, trying to drown out the sound of the world, feeling like the only one who understood was a voice on the radio …

Taj logged in to TAP and started reading the latest Johnny Silver sightings. The night at the Viper, Taj had been sure it was just some kind of joke—Johnny having a tantrum and refusing to play the biggest show of his career. But it just didn't seem funny anymore.

She'd harassed Sutton, as well as Johnny's publicist and the folks from his record company, but none of them had a clue as to his whereabouts. TAP was full of rumors—Johnny had fled to rehab in South America. Or had joined a monastery in Tibet. Or was living in a commune in Utah, or on a beach in Phuket.

Maybe they were right. Maybe Johnny was out there somewhere surfing his brains out. But Taj didn't think so. More likely Johnny was in some motel room somewhere with that needle in his arm. She hoped, not for the first time and with a sudden panic, that he wasn't dead.

The phone rang. Taj was glad of the reprieve from her morbid thoughts.

“Hey, is this Taj?” a friendly voice inquired.

“This is Taj.”

“Hey. Just wanted to see if you could play that song—you know, Johnny's song.”

When Johnny's promo CD had arrived, fresh and shiny in its plastic package, she was surprised to find that the first song on the playlist was one he had never played for her before. It was a beautiful song, filled with ache and longing. He had told her it was going on his new album, but he'd never let her hear it while he was working on it. She recognized the first chord—it was the same one he'd played before he'd vanished in a puff of smoke.

Since then, it was the most requested song on the radio. She played it on every show, and it was inevitable that someone would request it at least several times in the night.

“Sure, and who can I say requested it?”

“Nick. Nick Huntington,” the caller said, yelling over the sound of traffic in the background.

“Thanks, Nick Nick Huntington.”

She queued up the song, abruptly taking off the Stellastarr track that was playing. “This one is for Nick Huntington. Off of Johnny Silver's new album. Enjoy.”

The song played, and like clockwork the phone lines lit up like Christmas. But instead of answering, Taj closed her eyes, counting softly, one, two, three, four, as the lines blinked off one by one.

Johnny's song played on her headphones. Taj mouthed the words, the lyrics seared in her brain:
Is this me? Love and loyalty. What do I see?

Even the IMs stopped popping.

Like her, everyone was just listening …

NICK HUNG UP HIS CELL PHONE AS THE OPENING
chord to Johnny's song filled the Harmon Kardon speakers in his Bentley convertible. He'd never called in to the show before, but after what had happened that night, there was something about the girl's voice on the radio that had spoken to him. That had made him feel less lonely somehow. He drove up to the house and punched the code into the security box that opened the gate. He waited as the electronic control swung the steel door open slowly; the minute he could fit the car past it, he floored the engine, almost scraping the side door, then zoomed up the winding driveway toward the main entrance.

The house was dark, the windows shut, shades and curtains drawn, which was usually a sign that its four occupants were gone for the evening, along with the day staff of two. He unlocked the door and punched in another code to deactivate the burglar alarm. There were so many security codes to remember—one for the gate, one for the house, one for the pool fences—not to mention the proliferation of ATM codes, computer passwords, and various e-mail account access codes, that he kept a piece of paper in his wallet with all of them written down. Not a great idea, he knew, but it was the only way he could keep track instead of getting everything all jumbled in his brain.

He locked the door behind him and entered the kitchen, surprised to see a light shining in the alcove by the stove.

“Oh!”

Slam!

Fish jerked down the screen on her laptop and the halo of light disappeared.

“Everything all right in there?” Nick asked, turning on the switches, flooding the room with fluorescent light.

Fish was sitting cross-legged on a stool, a guilty look on her face. “You scared me!” she said, putting a melodramatic hand up to her head and pretending to faint. Fish never gave up an opportunity to test out
her acting skills; she had been overreacting to everything that happened in her life ever since she was born. It was one of the many things Nick loved about his stepsister.

“Whatcha hiding?” Nick asked, walking over so he could look over her shoulder, although the laptop was still shut.

“Nothing.” Fish shook her head, running her fingers on the top of the computer protectively, although her tone of voice suggested a wealth of mystery.

“What's wrong, shrimp?” Nick asked affectionately. Fish's real name was Fish—her mother was a famous environmental activist. She'd married Nick's father when Fish was just two years old and Nick six. Fish spent the summers with her dad, a corporate lawyer in New York. People often remarked how much Nick and Fish looked alike, and neither of them ever bothered clarifying the fact that they weren't blood related. Each was the only sibling the other would ever have.

“I told you, nothing,” Fish said insistently. “Why the third degree?” she asked, jutting out her chin and assuming a defiant pose. Now she was playing an aggrieved, defensive suspect from a film noir. Their parents had effectively squashed Fish's acting bug; neither of them approved of the entertainment industry,
even though—or maybe because—Nick's father was a powerful movie producer. They had forbidden Fish from joining the profession, at least until she turned eighteen, so Fish had to make do with school roles and infusing her ordinary life with as much outsize excitement as possible.

“What's up with you?” she asked hesitantly, as she gingerly lifted up the screen and began pecking at the keyboard. Occasionally a pinging sound would indicate the pop-up of a new message.

Nick shrugged and walked over to the Traulsen, the refrigeration unit his stepmother had installed during last year's renovation. It was the same kind that four-star restaurants used to keep their beluga chilled to an icy twenty-eight degrees. The Huntingtons' was mostly used to store twenty different kinds of soda, bottled water, and coffee drinks. He perused the drink selection and took out a Red Bull.

“Are you sure you're okay?” she asked, watching as he closed the fridge door and pulled out a stool across from her by the island alcove.

In answer he pushed open the tab and took a gulp from the silver and blue can. The tart, citrus flavor gave him that instant caffeine high he craved.

“You're not having any Maxi Pad problems?” she asked. Fish glanced up from the screen at her stepbrother
occasionally while her fingers flew over the keyboard.

He took a long gulp from the can. “We broke up.” That was easier to say than he had thought it would be.

“Yeah, I heard,” Fish said softly, her eyes downcast. “It's all over TAP.”

“Already?” Nick asked, shocked even though he shouldn't have been. “What does it say?” he asked.

In answer, Fish turned her laptop toward him, and Nick read the item.

“Unbelievable,” he breathed. He had confronted Maxine only an hour—no, forty-five minutes ago; already TAP.com—had all the gory details. Nick and Maxine were perennial boldface names in the “Tapped In” column. There was even a link to the picture he'd found on her phone that evening that was obviously not meant for his eyes. How the hell did that get out already? He clicked on the link, and that nauseous feeling returned. It was a picture of Maxine and Button Werner in a passionate lip-lock backstage before the Johnny Silver concert at the Viper Room. He recognized the halter top Maxine had been wearing that night.

“If it's any consolation, he's totally
eww,”
Fish declared, channeling her best Summer Roberts impersonation.

Nick grimaced. It stung, but then part of it was his fault; he'd heard the rumors—they'd been on TAP for months—that Maxine was stepping out on him with Sutton Werner, but he'd adamantly refused to believe them, dismissing it as idle gossip. Sutton Werner? That loser? The one who wore an ascot to class?

He had been willfully blind. He'd told himself not to trust what he'd seen with his own eyes. Had talked himself into believing that somehow, because she was seated at the table when he got there, she couldn't have been backstage hooking up with someone else. When for all he knew Maxine had spotted him, too, and had used the shortcuts around the club to fool him. Yeah. That was probably what happened.

He could see that now. Pictures were worth a thousand words, and his girlfriend had been stupid enough to keep one on her phone. But now that he knew the truth, did he really feel any better?

“At least you finally know what she's really like,” Fish said, being herself for a change.

Nick sighed, and his right cheek twitched. Why had he let Maxine run all over him like that? He still couldn't figure it out. He'd had girlfriends before, but none of them had ever cheated on him, at least not that he knew about. None of them had ever flaunted their cheating so unapologetically.

His cell phone rang. Maxine.

He rejected the call, sending it straight to voice mail. He would deal with her later.

Fish shut down the computer and raked a hand through her curly blond hair. “Spare me a fifty?” she wheedled.

“What do you need money for?” he asked.

“Sex. Drugs. Rock and roll. The usual.” She grinned. “Don't make me depend on the kindness of strangers.”

“Seriously,” Nick pressed.

“Seriously?” she asked warily, the Blanche DuBois fading from her accent.

“Doesn't Dad give you enough allowance?”

“Are you kidding? Mackenzie Ryan gets like three times what I get.
And
credit cards. Donovan Rainer uses her mom's black AmEx. You think Evelyn is ever going to hand over the plastic? C'mon, it's just a fitty. Please?” For the first time that evening, Fish sounded her age.