One of them said, “Show time, sir.” The other hooked his thumb toward the Seville and said, “Better be getting going.”
I drove off, speeding up Esperanza. The school was ringed with vehicles and I had to park more than a block away. More cop cars, along with bland-looking sedans that might have been unmarkeds, media vans, at least three white ultrastretch Mercedes. And spectators- a few of the locals, standing in front of their homes. Some looked sour- the put-upon resignation of picnickers invaded by ants. But others seemed pleased, as if waiting for a parade.
I walked on, wondering what had brought them out. What “show time” meant. Then I heard it, as I got closer to the school grounds. A relentless drumbeat. Synthesizer trills over a walking bass run.
Carnival sounds. A rock-and-roll carnival. I wondered why Linda hadn’t mentioned anything to me.
Directly across from the school entrance, a local stood blocking the sidewalk. Thickset older man in plaid madras pants and white Ban-Lon golf shirt, smoking a cigarette and flicking ashes onto the sidewalk. Flicking in the direction of the school. As I approached, he stopped and stared. Dry-ice squint, raw-pork complexion.
“Morning,” I said. “What’s all the hubbub?”
He peered at me, flicked, and said, “Some singer.” His tone of voice said he placed that one rung above pimp on the occupational ladder.
“Which one?”
“Who knows?” He took a drag. “First they force themselves on us; then they bring in their jungle music.”
He gave me a challenging look. I walked around him and crossed the street. His cigarette flew by me, landed on the macadam, throwing off sparks.
The fence around the schoolyard was laced with orange and silver streamers, hung so densely I couldn’t see inside. The gate was locked. A school policeman was at the front door to the school building, along with a husky black man with Rasta dreadlocks and a patchy, blemishlike beard. The black man wore white sweat pants and an orange T-shirt that said THE CHILLER TOUR! MEGA-PLATINUM! in metallic letters. He held a clipboard in one hand, a set of gold-plated keys in the other. As I got closer, the school cop retreated.
Dreadlocks said, “Name.”
“Dr. Delaware. Alex Delaware. I work at the school.”
He looked at the clipboard, ran his finger down a page. “How do you spell thot, mon?” His enunciation was precise.
I told him. He turned a page and his brows compressed, pulling forward several twists of hair. “Delaware. As in the state?”
“Exactly.”
“Sorry, mon, I don’t see anything like thot.”
Before I could reply, the door swung open. Linda stormed out. She’d changed into a cheerful-looking yellow dress but didn’t look happy.
“Stop hassling this man!”
The school cop and Dread turned to stare at her. She came down the steps, took my arm, pulled me past them. Dread said, “Mo’om-”
She held up a warning finger. “Uh-uh, don’t say a word! This man works here. He’s a famous doctor! He has a job to do and you’re getting in the way!”
Dread pulled at a lock and grinned. “Sorry, mo’om. I was just looking for his name- no offense intended.”
“No offense?! I gave your people his name! They promised me there’d be no hassle!”
Dread smiled again and shrugged. “Sorry.”
“What the heck do you think this is anyway? Some disco club?” She glared at the school cop: “And what about you! What the heck are you here for- just here to keep him company?”
Before either of them could answer, we were inside. She slammed the door behind us.
“Jesus! I just knew that was going to happen!” She was still gripping my arm as we speed-walked down the corridor.
I said, “What’s going on?”
“DeJon Jonson is what’s going on. He’s chosen to honor us with a personal appearance. For the sake of the poor victimized children.”
“The Chiller himself?”
“In all his spangled glory. And his entourage. Groupies, roadies, press agents, an army of bodyguards- clones of Mr. Reggae out there. And a whole bunch of unclassifieds who look as if they should be shipped off to drug rehab. Not to mention every TV, radio, and newspaper hack in town and a dozen pencil-pushers from the Board who haven’t seen the inside of a schoolyard since Eisenhower.”
She stopped, straightened her dress, patted her hair. “And of course, our dear Councilman Latch- it was he who arranged the whole thing.”
“Latch?”
She nodded. “Wifey-poo’s show biz connections, no doubt. She’s here, too, patting the kids’ heads and wearing a rock that could pay for all our school lunches for a year.”
“Diamonds on a revolutionary?”
“California revolutionary. What my dad used to call Cadillac Commies. Lord save me from Monday morning surprises.”
“No one told you?”
“Nope.”
“So much for his hearing me.”
“What’s that?”
“Latch. The time he dropped in to play his harmonica. I talked to him about keeping things predictable. He told me he’d heard me- I’d given him food for thought.”
“Oh, he heard it all right. He just chose to disregard it.”
“When did you actually find out?”
We resumed walking. She said, “One of the pencil-pushers left a message on my machine last night at ten. I had the poor manners to be out with you, didn’t pick up until this morning. Which gave me a heck of a lot of time to prepare, right? I managed to get to Latch just a while ago, told him this could be disruptive. He didn’t process that at all, said getting a star of DeJon’s caliber wasn’t something that came up every day; this was a coup for the kids.”
I said, “Coup for him. Tape a few thousand feet of happy-face video for the next campaign.”
She made a taut, throaty sound, like a mama bobcat warning hunters away from the lair. “You know, what gets me the most is that Sunday call from downtown. That’s got to be a historical first. Ordinarily I can’t even get them to take a message during working hours. Ordering textbooks, begging for funds for field trips- everything takes forever. Molasses Standard Time. But for this, they can move like rockets.”
I said, “Rock and roll never dies. You even got your guard back.”
She gave a disgusted look. “You should see the production they’ve put together. Crew from the record company arrived at seven, along with carpenters from the district. They set up a big stage out on the yard in one hour flat. P.A. system, all those streamers, the works. They even printed up a schedule- do you believe that! Orange print on silver satin paper, must have cost a fortune. Everything laid out by the minute: Latch makes a speech; then DeJon does his thing, throws paper flowers at the kids, and is whisked off to a waiting limo. It actually says that-Whisked Off. To Waiting Limo. The whole darned thing gets filmed for the evening news and probably used on DeJon’s next rock video. His flunkies came into the classrooms and distributed release forms for the kids to take home.”
I said, “Mega-platinum and the Nobel Peace Prize too. With all this excitement, what’s the status of the parent group?”
“The parents are all here- though I had a heck of a time getting Jonson’s yahoos to understand they needed to be let through without a body search. I had to watch the door all morning. ’Course, once Latch’s people realized who they were, they laid out the red carpet- snapped their pictures with Latch, gave them front-row seats for the show.”
“How’d the mothers react to that?”
“Confused, at first. But they got into it pretty quickly- celebrities for an hour. Whether they’ll be in a receptive state for talking about problems, I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
I smiled. “Not receptive even for a famous doctor?”
She colored. “Hey, to me, you’re famous. The kind of fame that matters.”