Free Greasepaint by David C. Hayes Page A

clamps his hand over Skeezer’s mouth, quickly. The officer shakes his head.
    â€œIs there a problem officer?” Mona asks, trying to deflect any attention away from her ridiculous bandmates.
    â€œIt’s Detective Morris, and there may be,” the large man says. Without another word, the detective pulls out a cell phone. He holds up his finger indicating that the band should wait. He dials a number and holds the phone aloft.
    A cell phone rings in the dressing room. Ricky’s pocket lights up like a glow stick is inside.
    Ricky slowly fishes the phone out of his pocket as the detective stops the call.
    Mona and Michael turn to look at Ricky. Skeezer moves in behind the guitarist in a coward’s show of solidarity.
    The detective grunts and shakes his head. “I just dialed a number from Monty Reigns’ cell phone bill and, oddly enough, it belongs to you.”
    Michael glares at Ricky. “What the fuck, dude?”
    Ricky’s mouth opens and closes. Nothing comes out.
    â€œThe shit part is that Reigns was found dead last night.”
    The band turns to the detective. Ricky manages to find his voice. “What?”
    Morris pulls over a stack of milk crates and sits down, positioning himself between the band and the door.
    â€œI was curious as to why you would call him the night he died,” he says. “You don’t seem to run in the same social circles.”
    Mona and Michael turn on Ricky, pushing close into the guitarist’s face.
    â€œYeah, Ricky?” Michael spits out. “Couldn’t be you supplying that asshole with all the info and footage?”
    â€œI…I…I just wanted some press for the band, man! This show is huge and we could sign a deal here!”
    Michael starts forward, angry and hell bent on revenge. Mona stops him.
    â€œYou bastard,” is all that Michael can get out. Michael shrugs off Mona’s hand. He turns and pushes around the detective and out the door. Morris watches him go, uninterested.
    Mona shoots a look at Ricky and Skeezer that communicates pure venom. “Nice,” she says right before following Michael out. Morris lets her go too.
    â€œIt was his idea,” Skeezer calls out after her.
    Chuckling, Morris stands and looks down at Ricky and Skeezer. The two of them cower, barely able to make eye contact with the imposing officer.
    â€œSounds like you’ve got a story for me,” he says and pulls a notebook and pen from his back pocket.
    The detective scribbles the last of the notes into the little notebook and reads over what he had just written. He shakes his head, trying to process the information.
    In front of him, sheepish and on the verge of tears, Ricky and Skeezer are still on the milk crates. They have their hands in their laps. If it weren’t for the garish costumes they would look like obedient school boys.
    â€œSo, you mean to tell me that you were calling the victim for press for your band, nothing else?”
    Shame prevents Ricky and Skeezer from looking at the detective.
    â€œYes, sir,” Ricky manages.
    â€œAnd you had no qualms selling out your friend?”
    Skeezer sighs. Ricky looks up at this, trying to meet the officer’s gaze.
    â€œSir…we had no idea it was that bad. We never would have done it if…”
    Morris cuts him off. “Right.” He finishes his notes and stuffs the notebook into his back pocket. “I’m going to find your friends and get the real scoop on this. So far it doesn’t appear like you guys had a reason to knock off Reigns…”
    The pair of them look up, eagerly. “No sir!” Ricky blurts out.
    â€œBut, your pal Michael has a legitimate motive. I hope to God that you didn’t start something that he finished.”
    Ricky and Skeezer turn toward one another. That was a possibility they had never considered.
    â€œI’ll be back,” the detective announces before turning and leaving the