“We have a complaint that you assaulted a fan before the show tonight,” the first officer said. He was a younger cop, so young he looked like a boy scout with a gun. “We’re here to interview you and get your side of the story.”
“That fuckin’ loser?” Matt said, shaking his head. “He was no fuckin’ fan, but yeah, I kicked his ass.”
“Matt!” Greg hissed. “I said you don’t have to say anything! It’s your constitutional right!”
“Fuck my rights,” Matt said. “That asshole deserved it.” He turned to the second cop, she was female and a little older, perhaps thirty, and in exquisite physical shape. Matt wondered what kind of titties she had under that bullet proof vest beneath her shirt. “Can you imagine?” he asked her. “The asshole comes back into my backstage area and starts talking shit to me, calling me a fuckin’ sellout and shit like that. I can’t let shit like that go unanswered.”
“Then you admit you punched him?” the female cop asked. Her nametag said she was R. Brooker.
“Fuck yeah,” Matt said.
“Only after he took a swing at you first, right Matt?” Jack said carefully, loudly.
“Naw,” Matt said, shaking his head. “I threw the first punch. He blocked it and then tried to catch me with a right. Weak ass shit. I got him in a hand lock and was able to tune up his face a bit before the guys pulled me away.”
Jack was now burying his face in his hands and shaking his head. Greg’s signature grin had faded.
“Interesting,” said the first cop. His nametag read Z. Timpkin. “Even the guy’s girlfriend claims that Mr. Carver threw the first punch. All of your security people back her up. But you’re saying that you threw the first punch?”
Matt laughed. “The bitch turned on her own boyfriend, huh? That’s fuckin’ classic.” He turned to R. Brooker again. “She’s a hard-core fan,” he explained. “She wasn’t too happy about her boyfriend talking his shit to me. Not only that, I’m pretty sure she wants to slurp on my schlong, you know what I’m saying?”
R. Brooker blinked slowly but her face did not otherwise change expression. “Mr. Carver,” she said, “wishes to file charges against you for assault and battery.”
“What a puss,” Matt said with contempt. “Remember the good old days, when you could get in a fight when someone talked shit, kick their ass, and that was the end of it? Whatever happened to those days?”
“We often ask ourselves that same question,” R. Brooker said. “In any case, this assault that you admit to does not rise to the level of a felony. Since it was a misdemeanor, not committed in our presence, we told Mr. Carver that we could not arrest you for it, but that he can make a citizen’s arrest if he wishes. Well ... he wished. That is why we are here, Mr. Tisdale.”
“You’re going to arrest me?” he asked.
“We are,” she said. “We will then take you down to the jail and book you. Now, my understanding is that you’ve had some run-ins with law enforcement before, that you’ve resisted arrest violently on several occasions.”
“Yeah,” Matt said carefully. “You could say that.”
“We would appreciate it if you would just accompany us to the jail without fuss,” R. Brooker said. “This is not a big deal at all. We won’t even handcuff you if you just agree to go with us. This is a shitty misdemeanor assault charge that the DA will undoubtedly drop as soon as he gets his hands on it. I am absolutely sure you’ll be released on your own recognizance once the booking is completed. You can be back to your hotel room before midnight.”
Matt pondered this information for a few moments and then nodded. “Sounds good,” he said. “Take me away and let’s get this shit over with.”
“Do not answer any more questions, Matt,” Greg warned. “Just cooperate and do what they say. I already have a lawyer on the way to the jail.”
“Bitchin,” Matt said. He turned to R. Brookings again. “This bitch of Carver’s,” he said—he did not remember her name. “Is she still floating around somewhere?”
“I have no idea,” R. Brookings told him. “Carver went to the hospital in an ambulance, and...”
“An ambulance?” Matt said, shaking his head again. “He really is a fuckin’ pussy.”
“Yeah,” R. Brookings said. “Be that as it may, his girlfriend elected not to go with him. She seemed rather upset about the whole thing.”
“I’m sure she is,” Matt said. He turned to Jack. “Hey, Jack, see if you can find her out there, will you? If you do, see if she wants to come to the after-gig party at the hotel. She’s got a fuckin’ tongue piercing with my name on it, brother.”
Jack chuckled a little. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
“And if you can’t find her,” Matt said, “try to find me some bitch who does have one of them tongue studs. I’m kinda intrigued by this shit.”
“Understood,” Jack said.
Matt turned back to the two cops. “All right then,” he said. “Take me away!”
As the two cops led him away, unhandcuffed and unbeaten, he took a moment to reflect upon how much he had matured since his last run-in with law enforcement officers.
I guess I’m growing up, he thought.
The Rhode Island Storage facility in Warwick, Rhode Island was a large lot, surrounded by chain link topped with razor wire, just adjacent to the interchange of Interstate 95 and State Highway 37. Most of the facility was general storage bays, unpowered, with no environmental controls. In the very back, however, in the areas that nestled up against the interstate, was a row of larger buildings that featured power and heating within larger bays big enough to hold a vehicle.
Jake parked the rental Audi he’d procured from nearby T.F. Green International Airport in front of stall 433, which was standing open and had two other vehicles—a Toyota Corolla and a white Ford Van—parked beside it. Inside the bay were the regional rock group Brainwash and their equipment. There was a double bass drum set sitting on a platform, three microphone stands arrayed in a line, one of which had an electric keyboard set sitting in front of it. A few amplifiers were in the rear of the stall and a variety of guitars and open guitar cases were stacked here and there.
Jake, Pauline, and the Nerdlys got out of the vehicle and walked to the open stall. Jim Scanlon, looking a little older and slightly pudgier around the middle than the last time Jake had seen him, walked over to greet them.
“It really wasn’t Rob fucking with me,” he said in wonder as he held out his hand.
“It really wasn’t,” Jake said, shaking with him. “It’s good to see you guys again. This is Pauline Kingsley, my sister, my manager, a badass lawyer, and one of the owners of KVA Records.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” she said, shaking with Jim while the rest of the band came forward.
“And this is Bill and Sharon Archer,” Jake told them next. “If you’re an Intemperance fan, you know Nerdly here was the piano player. These days, he and Sharon are our sound engineers and they also own a quarter of KVA.”
Handshakes were done and then Jim introduced the rest of the band to those who had never met them before. “Marcie, my wife and our keyboardist,” he said, pulling her forward.
Marcie Scanlon had also put on a bit of weight since Jake had seen her last. It did not look bad on her as she distributed it well. Her hair was now long and had a few speckles of gray in it. All in all, she was still an attractive woman of farmgirl proportion. Her hand was soft, but her grip firm as she shook with everyone and told them how pleased she was to meet them.
“Stephanie Zool,” Jim said, “lead guitar and vocalist on her material.”
Stephanie also looked different than before. Her hair was shorter and she looked like she was trying to display her lesbianism instead of downplaying it. She looked just like a butch dyke, complete with loose fitting jeans, studded leather belt, and a wife-beater shirt that showed off the tattoo on her well-muscled left upper arm—a ring of female gender symbols (a circle with a cross attached at the six o’clock position) that went around the entire circumference. Both of her ears were studded with multiple piercings.