Nothing lasts. The second album rose briefly, then sank to oblivion. The third? It was over. The band broke up. That was more than thirty-five years ago, half a lifetime of autograph shows, Behind the Music cameos, and the occasional Japanese royalty check. The passing harbor tour boats used to point out his house, but that stopped years ago. No one even called him for session work anymore, because of the drinking. I have this friend who works at TMZ, the celebrity scandal show. She said that during his latest divorce, his ex was shopping a videotape that showed him butt-naked on a lawn chair, pasty and late-life saggy, getting blown by a Goth-looking high-school sophomore. Its release actually might have helped his career. But my friend told me the show had passed on the tape.
The executive producer didn’t even recognize his name.
What do you do when you peak at nineteen? You move to Balboa Island, that’s what. You fall down a well.
“Dark matter?” I said.
He stood up straight and squared his shoulders. “Astrophysics. Cosmology. C’mon, you know.”
He swayed and bumped against the doorframe and motioned me closer, like he was about to share a secret. I stood my ground, but leaned in a little, near enough to smell the booze but far enough to cut and run if he was as drunk and nuts as he seemed. I also caught a whiff of something that made me think of a dirty litter box.
“Can’t see dark matter,” he said, “’s invisible. But it’s there.”
“Where?”
“All ’round us. Most of th’ mass in th’ observ-a-ble universe?” He grinned. “Dark matter.”
“I’ll be damned. And you can’t even see it?”
That brought a somber shake of his head, still crowned by that goofy hair-metal cut, improbably black. “But y’see what dark matter does.”
I took a small step backward. His breath was toxic. “Which is?”
He lit up. Perfect rows of bright white teeth split the weathered skin of his face. “Changes things. Affects things. See, mass has weight, and weight creates grrra-vi-ty.” Took his time pronouncing each syllable of the word. “And grrra-vi-ty doesn’t lie, man. Doesn’t lie.” Another wink. “C’mere. I’ll show you.”
With that he turned from the open door and scuffed down the hall, the soft soles of his UGG boots making a schik-schikschik as he moved away. For some reason, don’t ask me why, I followed. Say what you will about celebrity, but there’s definitely something magnetic about it. Seductive. Dangerous. No one’s immune. Maybe that’s what he was talking about? Anyway, as soon as I stepped across his threshold I was thinking, Dude, you really gotta ask for that raise.
More than eighty rehab facilities dot the Balboa Peninsula within a mile of this exclusive island; Southern California’s celebrities like to dry out in tidy, well-appointed luxury, and by the beach. I’d never been inside one of those, but this place struck me as probably the exact opposite. Piles of stuff everywhere — books, clothes, newspapers. One side of the hall was just drywall, installed but never plastered or painted. The other side was ’70s-era flocked wallpaper hung by an amateur. A classic Fender Strat with a snapped neck lay at the base of a stairway leading to a second story, its looping strings holding the pieces together like thin steel ligaments.
“Mind your way right here,” he called back over his shoulder, sidestepping something. It looked like a mound of shit the size of a football.
When I got closer, I realized it was a pile of shit.
“Whoa,” I said, and stopped.
“Cheers,” he said, lifting the glass again as he moved off down the hall. “Best to let it air-dry a bit.”
He waved me on, turning left toward a sun-filled room facing the harbor’s main channel. “Right in here.”
My father taught me caution in all things. He lived life by the Law of Worst Possible Consequences and communicated it to us daily. An unbuckled seat belt would lead directly to death. So would a carelessly placed skateboard, improperly inflated tires, or an incautious remark to the wrong cop. To be honest, it’s probably why I gravitated to a career wreaking legal vengeance on people who live too close to the edge. Still, something irresistible was pulling me around the corner into the unknown, into a room filled with cast-off dorm furniture.
The space itself was a realtor’s wet dream. Vast windows overlooked the main channel of Newport Harbor. Electric Duffy boats slid past, and the mast and mainsail of an enormous passing yacht briefly dominated the view. Here was a daily parade of all that the Good Life could offer, no longer within reach from this ringside seat.
No matter how ramshackle this castle, the thought of losing it must be torturing the king.
“Sweet,” I said, crossing between a battered couch and a shredded La-Z-Boy recliner, which lay on its side in the middle of the room. It looked like a toy tossed aside by a giant child.
I joined him at one of the windows. “You’ve lived here a long time, right?”
He drained his drink before answering. “Three albums. Three marriages.”
He turned away from the view and headed for the bar across the room. That’s when I noticed her.
She was stretched out in a claw-footed tub, gray and glassy-eyed and naked except for a pair of strappy red-stiletto heels. Maybe early forties, with the look of a tired old groupie. She had stringy, damp blond hair on her head. The dark roots were the same color as the fluffy patch between her legs. He’d half-filled the tub with party ice he must have bought last night or early this morning at the 7-Eleven on the peninsula. A dozen crumpled plastic ice bags were piled at one end. Best guess: she hadn’t been there long; for an ongoing obsession, he’d be using dry ice.
I tamped down my clutching fear. I’d never seen a dead body before.
“Sh-she may need help,” I managed.
Absurd, I know. My other option was to just crap myself and run.
“Who?” he said, his back to me, pouring himself another drink.
I pointed to the tub even though he wasn’t watching. “Her.”
When he turned around, he was stirring his drink with the index finger of one hand. He did that for a long time without saying a word, without even looking at the chilling body in the middle of the room. Suddenly, he seemed to notice her.
“Hoo boy,” he said, cheerful, as if he’d simply neglected to introduce her. “Dam’nest thing, that.”
“She definitely doesn’t look okay.”
“Oh no. She’s definitely not.” He took a sip. “No par-medics necessary, ’m afraid.”
Time to go. I sidestepped toward the hallway.
“Wait,” he said. “Her... this... tha’s not what I wanted to show you.”
“Dude,” I said, “this is seriously fucked up.”
“I know!” he said. “She comes by th’ house to party, then overdoses. Self-control’s sush a problem with some people.”
She didn’t look like she’d been killed. No blood. No bullet wounds or knife holes. No bruises at her throat. Just the waxy gray corpse of a woman who’d stopped by to party.
On ice.
“When, um...”
“Lass night. She found my coke and jus’... overdid!”
“Jesus,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too! Terrific talent, that one.” He winked. “Not a kid anymore, but she sure knew how to work it.”
I struggled for words. “Sorry for your loss.”