Brad had been planning to break Skyler’s nose for causing all of this to happen, but now he actually wanted to hug the little twerp. “Are you shitting me?” he asked far more excitedly than he intended to sound.
“I only shit in the toilet, brother, and I wouldn’t let my dog crap in one of these metallic chamberpots. It’s the least I can do for such a loyal fan. Plus I like your style. I rode you good a few minutes ago and you stayed pretty cool.”
“Thanks,” said Brad, beaming ear to ear and hoping Dean couldn’t hear the smile in his voice. But he couldn’t deny his elation at having the lead singer of the Poorboy Shamans compliment his style.
Angry shouts suddenly echoed down the hall from the front of the station. “I want to see my client now!” demanded a nasally voice that sounded used to getting its way.
“So go see him!” retorted the desk sergeant. “I don’t want to look at his ugly monkey ass any more than I have to.”
A tall, thin, agitated man with silver-flecked black hair and a black-and-gray pinstriped suit to match strode past Brad’s cell, a portly officer puffing to keep pace behind him. “Why is my client bruised?” he barked. “Has he been beaten?”
“No sir,” said the officer, slightly gasping between words. “When we arrested him he was doing back flips all over his hotel room while these two whores were snorting up coke and egging him on. All the furniture was busted. He must have bruised himself during all the nonsense.”
“Is this officer telling the truth, Dean?” snapped the lawyer. Brad was shocked that Dean Morrow would allow someone on his payroll, especially an old fart in a dorky suit, to speak to him so abruptly.
“It’s cool, Fred,” said Dean. “Just get me out of this pigsty.”
“Open his cell immediately,” commanded the lawyer. “I have more than $200,000 in bearer bonds, I assume that will cover his bail?”
“With enough left over to retile my swimming pool,” said the officer as he pressed the button to open the door to Dean’s cell.
Dean, who now radiated icy calm despite the growing welt under his left eye, slouched and slowly strolled out of his cell. As he passed Brad’s cell he stopped and flashed him the peace sign.
“Give me a few minutes, kid,” he said. “A magistrate has to come down and straighten everything out for me. Then I’ll take care of you.” Brad nodded in assent, intimidated to silence by both the cop and the lawyer. The only authority he had any faith in was Dean, who looked like a very badass hobbit standing next to his six-foot-three lawyer.
Then Dean was gone and the cell block turned quiet again. Brad lay down on the metal bed, folding up the cheap blanket to use as a pillow. After a few minutes, the sensation of lying on metal became almost bearable.
Brad awoke suddenly. He figured he must have dozed off for a moment or two. The portly cop was back, standing in front of his cell. Dean’s lawyer had obviously sent him to fetch Brad for the limo.
“It’s almost 4 AM,” said the officer. “Will you be staying the night?”
“No, man, it’s cool, Dean’s got my back,” said Brad, trying to figure out why it was taking so long to process his bail payment. Maybe the desk sergeant had messed up the paperwork.
“Your rock star buddy left more than an hour ago,” said the officer, snorting loudly. “He was jabbering at that asshole lawyer about getting things moving so he could go and pick up a couple of pieces of ass waiting for him at some motel.”
“Shuteye Station?” Brad asked weakly.
The officer stroked his stubbly chin. “Yeah, that sounds right. He probably has groupies stashed in every motel from here to Florida. Unbelievable,” he said, shaking his head. “The more a guy is a useless piece of shit, the more the broads want to fuck him.” He ruefully glanced at what appeared to be a wedding band on his left third finger. “Makes me glad I’ve got four boys.” He stared up directly at Brad. “How about you, kid? Got a girlfriend?”
Brad wasn’t honestly sure at that exact moment, but said, “Yes,” without emotion.
The officer clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Of course you do. You’re no slouch in the dirtbag department. You probably have five or six girlfriends. Well, assuming you do spend the night in our humble abode, wakeup call is 6:30 AM sharp and breakfast is whatever five bucks will buy you at the local Golden Arches. Do you want to place an order now?”
“Anything fried will be fine,” Brad muttered.
The officer let out a long whistle. “That’s my kind of breakfast!” he stated. “There may be hope for you yet. With a haircut and better taste in music, you might be salvageable.”
“I’ll work on it,” said Brad.
“You bet,” said the officer, and then he walked away, his footsteps rebounding through the empty hallway.
Brad was numb with a nameless emotion several steps beyond rage. He didn’t know what had become of Dylan or Skyler, but he had a pretty good idea of where Melody and Charity had wound up. He didn’t know if he would even see any of them or his car again, and didn’t know what he would say to Melody if he did speak to her. But he was certain that he would break Skyler’s nose if he got the chance, and also probably crack his jaw for good measure. And as far as Dylan was concerned, he would be smart to haul his ass back to Wisconsin or wherever he came from if he wanted to live long enough to have a legal drink. Dylan knew Dean Morrow personally. He could have said something. He could have given a warning.
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