“God. I’m sorry, Krystal. I didn’t know.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like it came as a big surprise. He’s been dying since the day he was born. Almost two years ago. Sandhoff’s disease. The doctors told us he’d be lucky to last three months. He was a lot tougher than they thought. Miracles happen. Or so they say.” She look a serious draught of brandy, showing perfect teeth at the bite of it. “Oops, I’m being rude. Would you like a drink? Bourbon was your thing, right?”
“Thanks, no, I’m okay.” But Krystal wasn’t. She was flushed and bleary. Half bagged.
Her eyes caught mine. Then she peered at me more intently, blinking. “Good God. What happened to your face, Ax?”
“Motorcycle accident.”
“Damn. It looks like it hurt.” She said it deadpan, but with a glint of the old mischief I remembered so well. And then she was in my arms and we clung together a moment. Not passionately. Desperately. Like sparrows in a tornado.
For a guilty moment I savored her embrace, the scent of her hair. But the perfume was different. A lot more expensive. And it had been ten years. And we weren’t scuffling kids trying to get ahead in the music business anymore.
“Thanks, I needed that,” she said, stepping back. “Don’t worry, I won’t fall apart on you.”
“Fall all you want. You’re entitled.”
“No, I’m not.” She frowned down at the brandy snifter. “That’s the thing. I don’t have the right to cry. I earned every bit of this.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Sandhoff’s disease. Do you know anything about it?”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s hereditary. Evan and I both have the gene. It’s recessive, doesn’t affect us, but the odds are three to one that any kids we have will be born with the dysfunction. Three to one. I can’t watch any more babies die, Ax. That’s why I called you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I heard you were working as a private investigator now.”
“Sort of. I’m no Sherlock Holmes. Mostly I run down deadbeats and collect bad debts. Why?”
“I had another child once,” she said simply. “I want you to find her for me.”
“What child?”
“When I first met you, what, ten years ago? I was singing backup for Bobby Penn and the Badmen. Remember them?”
“Sure. I was managing the Roostertail when you played there. Thought you were one of the best damn singers I ever heard.”
“Get real. I was strictly minor league.”
“Wrong. When you sang alone the room always went quiet. People listened to you. It’s a special talent, Krys.”
“Maybe” — she shrugged — “but Bobby was the star and didn’t let anyone forget it. I was living with him then. And I got pregnant. So I stayed behind when Bobby and the guys went on a Canadian tour. And I had a baby girl. I named her Cher.” She took another long sip of brandy.
“A booking agent called, needed a backup singer for a gospel roadshow. The Evan Grace Ministry. I was flat broke so I left the kid with my landlady and took the gig. And it was... a revelation. Playing big churches and stadiums instead of rock joints. Everybody clean and sober. Listening to Evan preach every night, spreading the Word. It was so different from the life I was in. And I wanted it. And I wanted Evan too.”
“Looks like things worked out. Some miracles must happen.”
“But they come at a price. I... didn’t tell Evan about my daughter. The people around him are pretty uptight. I figured if they knew I had a love child with a rock ’n’ roller they’d stone me or something. So I kept putting off telling him. And then he asked me to marry him and it was too late to tell him. Afraid I’d lose him. And all this,” she added, with a wave of her hand.
“What about Bobby?”
“When he came back from Canada he was drugging so heavy I doubt he noticed I was gone. Until I married Evan and it made the news. And then he came around one night, wrecked. He had a picture of the baby, wanted money. For our kid, he said. I gave him all I had. A few hundred. Evan handles the money in the family. Bobby wanted more and we argued. I was angry about being held up, but mostly just angry with myself. And I’d been drinking. Always did have a problem with booze. Evan’s security people threw Bobby out. I expected to hear from him again. But I never did. It’s been nearly eight years.”
“I see. Any idea where he is now?”
“No. I don’t see anybody from the old days anymore. I thought you might know. You’re still in the business, right?”
“I do some security work for promoters and road bands so I know a few people. But I haven’t heard anything about Bobby or the Badmen for years. He was Canadian, right?”
“Yeah, and that’s about all I knew about him. Except that he was a hunk. He was an orphan, or said he was. He told me once that artists can’t be limited to the truth. I thought he was joking. He wasn’t. But he was a wonderful liar. Very... creative.”
“So you don’t know doodley about his background and the little you know might not be true?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Terrific.” I mulled that over. “Didn’t Bobby and the Badmen cut a record once?”
“They had two local hits in the seventies before I joined them. Nothing big.”
“Do you remember which label?”
“Something southern, I think. Raleigh?”
“Okay, that’s a place to start. Can you think of anyone else who might know where he is?”
“Beans, maybe.”
“Beans?”
“Fat guy, long black ponytail? Beans was the band’s road manager and sound man. He and Bobby went way back.”
“Yeah, I vaguely remember him. What was his real name?”
“God, I don’t know. He was just... Beans. That’s what everybody called him. I don’t know if I ever knew his real name. You know how it was in those days.”
“Pretty much the same as it is now. I’ll be honest with you, Krys. Even if I can turn Bobby up, and that’s not a gimme, your claim to the baby might be pretty shaky after all this time.”
“Don’t worry, I can handle Bobby. You sleep with a guy awhile, you get a pretty good idea what he’s about. Bobby was beautiful and he could sing like a bird, but down deep...”
“What?”
“That’s just it. There wasn’t anything down deep. No soul. Maybe he traded it for his looks, I don’t know. You’ve got to find my daughter for me, Ax. Please. I know I screwed up, but I can make it up to her. I have to. I can’t go on like this.”
That much was true. If I’ve ever seen anyone on the lip of the abyss it was Krystal Grace. I didn’t know if finding her lost child would help. What she really needed was rest and counseling and support. Or maybe a Miracle! from the sign out front.
But considering my shambles of a life, I’m the last person who can offer advice. Especially to an old friend in a world of hurt. So I kept my mouth shut and set out to do my job.
I didn’t get very far. Klein, the linebacker, met me in the hallway and said Mr. Grace wanted to see me before I left. He didn’t bother to say please.
We took an elevator down to the broadcast studio in the basement. I’d seen Evan Grace’s gospel broadcasts a time or two, usually at 3 A.M. on Christian stations. He’s a terrific talker with a good band who can bring a crowd to its feet. Or its knees. Or so I’d thought.
The cameras and equipment on the soundstage were top of the line, the latest and best from Sennheiser, Bose, and AKG. But there was no seating area for an audience in the room. The front of the stage faced a wide blue screen. Interesting.
Evan Grace’s inner office was the size of my apartment: thick carpeting, leather chairs, walls covered with gold-framed, autographed photographs. Evan posing with Nixon, with Pat Robertson, Tipper Gore.