“What is it?” I glanced up from the papers on my desk and saw a man in the corridor staring at us. “Well, well!” I said.
Micky Stevens was quite a bit shorter than I imagined he’d be. Weird how fame and success puts on inches. He was maybe five-eight and looked every bit the globally famous rock star he was. But he seemed jaded. He was wearing a black suit jacket and T-shirt, leather pants and boots. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days and looked like he had used a little too much gel in his spiky jet black hair.
Next to him stood his bodyguard, a massive, bald Maori in a tight-fitting suit. I guessed he weighed over three hundred pounds and had a chest measurement of at least sixty.
“You must be Craig Gisto,” Micky Stevens said taking a step into my office. He had a light, jaunty voice, and I could hear one of his songs in my head as he spoke.
“How did you work that out?”
“Got the biggest office,” and he glanced around. “You’re obviously Top Dog here.”
I smiled.
Johnny shook Micky Stevens’ hand and was still staring at the pop star with awe. Then he turned to the bodyguard.
“Oh, this is Hemi,” Micky Stevens said. “Looks really mean, yeah? But only with the enemy … otherwise, he’s a pussycat. Aren’t you, Hemi?”
“What can we do for you?” I asked.
He spun on his heel, lowered his voice. “Can we go … somewhere?”
We walked into reception. The pop star gave Colette a brief, professionally flirtatious smile. She’d been chewing the end of a pen and staring at the young man with a lost expression on her face.
I took Micky and Hemi along the hall and indicated to Johnny he should come with us. “We’ve a comfortable lounge through here,” I said. “Coffee?”
“Got anything stronger? Hemi’ll have water … sparkling if you have it …”
I left the odd couple with Johnny and went back to my office. I had a bottle of Bourbon in a small bar against the wall.
“Great choice, man!” Micky Stevens said as I came back, sat on a sofa opposite and watched him pour a generous measure.
I waited for him to take a sip, but he downed it in one. Meanwhile, Johnny had found a bottle of San Pellegrino and a glass. He handed them to Hemi.
“That’s better.” Micky Stevens smacked his lips.
I decided to wait for him to start talking, but he seemed a bit confused. “Not used to this sort a thing,” he began. “Feels like we’re in a Raymond Chandler novel!”
I was a bit surprised by that and must have shown it.
“I’m a big reader. Hated it at school, of course, but on tour there’s only so much drinking, snorting and screwing you can take … gets boring.” He produced a megawatt smile. “Anyway.” His face straightened and he looked quickly at Hemi who was pouring water carefully into a glass held in sausage fingers. “I’m here about Graham Parker.”
Both Johnny and I looked at him blankly.
“My manager. He’s quite well-known, dudes!”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m not really …”
“No probs.” Micky had his hands up. “You got another?” He flicked a nod at the Bourbon.
“Sure.” I refilled his glass. “So what is it about Mr. Parker?”
Micky knocked back his second big Bourbon, wiped his mouth and said, “Well, you see, it’s like this. Graham Parker’s trying to kill me.”
Chapter 29
I HADN’T EXPECTED that. Was the guy high? Was he crazy? Drug damaged maybe? I looked into his face. He seemed stone-cold sober, which was pretty amazing since he’d just drunk about a fifth of Bourbon. Actually he looked pretty cool, reminded me of Robbie Williams. Hemi seemed comfortable, hands in lap staring at the art. I was glad about that at least.
“Okay, Micky. What makes you think that?” I asked.
“I’m worth more dead than alive.”
“That doesn’t mean …”
“The bastard’s bent. I’ve been with him for three years. He picked me up when I was at my lowest point after leaving my old band. He’s a ruthless mother. You need that in a manager, but I know he wants me snuffed out.” Micky clicked his fingers in front of his face.
“If you really think that, why don’t you leave him?” Johnny asked and glanced at me for affirmation.
Micky laughed. “Wish I could! Really wish I could. But I’m bound by a watertight contract. Parker has me by the balls.”
“There must be …” I began.
“Listen, Craig, you’ve gotta understand. Forget it … There’s no way out of the contract.” He drew a deep breath. “Look, man, it’s all about Club 27.”