Beneath the Stain - Part 2 Read Free Page B

hand up. These guys are kids, and they’ve never had money in their lives, and now they’ve got it and they don’t know what to do with it. I mean, some of it they’re shoving up their noses, but most of it just sort of sits there. Gerry had to make them buy clothes, and he kept them on tour, so I don’t even think they’ve got a place to fucking sleep that’s not a hotel room. They’re here in LA for the next three months with one goal—”
    “Put out the fucking album. I’m not stupid.”
    Heath grunted. “Not businesswise, no. But sometimes I think the reason you became an MP was because you knew people would hate you anyway, and that way you had a patch on your arm that gave you permission to be an asshole.”
    Trav must have made a sound then, some sort of pain grunt, because Heath sighed and looked him in the eyes.
    “Trav, I’m sorry. Man, I don’t want to be your asshole. But these kids need more than a manager, okay? I thought Gerry could do it, but he was in a lot of pain himself, and I didn’t see it. He died—I had to get the kids to the funeral, do you know that? They had no idea what to even wear. I mean, Gerry didn’t have a family—there I was, two days before the graveside, and I’m taking five stoned kids to buy black suits because the only thing they had close was from their first gig as high school students and none of that shit fit.” Heath looked away. “And Mackey’s shit was too goddamned big because I think he’s been living off of Jack and Coke for the last year.” Heath shuddered and looked at Trav with naked pleading in his eyes.
    “We sign them up and then work their asses off to make money for us, Trav. This industry—man, it chews the kids up and spits them out, and we both know it. And these kids… I mean, Mackey’s got more talent than any kid I’ve ever dealt with. You know how Bruce and Bono and Madonna are like, old now, but they keep making damned good music?”
    Trav nodded. “Wrecking Ball” had been playing in his temporary apartment since he’d walked away from Terry. God save Bruce Springsteen.
    “Well, this kid could be that guy. He’s got so much inside him. But it’s not going to happen unless someone gets him to rehab and makes his life regular and shows him how to fucking survive, you hear me?”
    Trav sighed. “Babysitting?”
    Heath glared at him. “You remember Private Banneker?”
    Oh God. Trav swallowed against a sudden dry mouth and the memory of eyes popping out of a swollen face and the haunting swing of feet four feet above the ground. He’d checked. Goddammit, he’d checked to make sure Banneker was clear, didn’t have any goddamned thing to harm himself with inside his cell.
    Fucking kid had ripped his fatigues on a rough spot under the bunk and found a way to hang himself.
    “Horrible fucking memory,” Trav breathed, trying to clear that image from behind his eyes. Stupid kid. It was a three-month offense, max. Three months and a demotion. He couldn’t live through three months and a demotion? Trav had learned after that. Learned to talk the prisoners down as he locked them up. Learned to make it practical, a thing they could handle instead of the end of their lives.
    “Yeah?” Heath asked, rubbing his face restlessly, his own voice shaking. “Wasn’t great for me either.” Heath had been the one to find Banneker. They’d bunked together then, and Trav had been the one to help him through the nightmares.
    “You’re saying this kid’s gonna—” Trav couldn’t even make himself say it.
    “I’m saying someone needs to hold this kid’s hand for a while.”
    Heath looked Trav square in the eyes, and for once, he wasn’t wearing the contact lenses he called his Hollywood Blues. Trav found the honesty in his plain, average brownish eyes refreshing.
    “Babysitting,” Trav said, but he winked as he said it and stuck out his hand to shake on the bargain. “When do I start?”
    “Tomorrow morning,” Heath said,