Free Private Screening by Richard North Patterson Page B

to scream; suddenly the bouncer lay at Damone’s feet, hand clapped over his ruined mouth. Damone picked up the revolver, took three long strides, and kicked in the door to the trailer. Her scream died.
    A soft voice came from the trailer, Damone’s. The bouncer moaned in the dirt.
    Damone came through the door clutching a wad of money. Reaching the bouncer, he murmured, “Chalk it up to experience, asshole,” and stuffed one bill in his mouth. Then he put an arm around Stacy and walked her to his rusted-out Ford.
    They were on the freeway before either spoke. “I scared you,” he said.
    â€œIt’s just that it happened so fast.”
    Damone lit a cigarette. “Vietnam.”
    â€œYou never talk about that.”
    The tip of his cigarette had glowed orange. “I never will,” he said at last.
    Now, reflecting on their silent ride from Chinatown, the memory made her hesitate. “You could have been saving Jamie’s life,” she finally told him.
    They were in the tuning room, following Stacy’s sound check. The band’s guitars were in metal racks; Damone had dragged in a garbage can filled with ice and beer. They sat on the rug, backs against the wall, drinking beer from cans. The ritual reminded them of how far they’d come; the others left them alone.
    â€œI embarrassed him,” Damone replied. “He was afraid of how he’d look on television.”
    Stacy felt his chagrin. “It wasn’t that. Really.”
    â€œWhatever, tell him to be careful.”
    â€œI have.” Stacy turned to him. “It’s like he’s trying to prove he’s real, John. It scares me.”
    Damone nodded. After a time, he asked, “Is that what was wrong just now?”
    â€œIt was a rehearsal. I’ll be okay tonight.”
    Shrugging, Damone let it drop. “What will you wear?” he asked.
    â€œDon’t know.” Stacy sipped her beer. “When I opened the suitcase, my silk blouse looked like the Elephant Man.”
    â€œThe romance of the road.” Damone gave a one-sided smile. “You didn’t have to do this, Stacy.”
    â€œJust like you didn’t have to play road manager.”
    â€œAnd miss your first case of stage fright in a year? Besides, driving the truck’s nostalgic.”
    She touched his hand.
    The roadie, Carson, drifted in. Quickly, Stacy smiled at him. “Thanks, Harry—the sound’s great.”
    â€œNo problem,” Carson answered in a monotone, and continued his trancelike amble toward the garbage can. To Stacy, Carson had the inbred look of a typical roadie: lean-muscled, with spectral eyes, sharp features, a wispy blond mustache. But there was something else inside him, remote and a little scary. Reaching into the ice, he pulled out a chilled fifth of tequila, took one long swallow, and wiped his mouth.
    â€œFind your kid?” Damone asked him.
    Carson’s gaze was glassy, as if the question was taking detours in his brain. “Not yet,” he finally answered, and walked off with the bottle.
    â€œIs he all right, John?”
    Damone pulled his knees up to prop both elbows, and stared at the beer. “Harry does his work, and he hasn’t crashed his cycle lately.” He took another sip. “He drinks sometimes.”
    â€œHe was in Vietnam with you, wasn’t he?”
    Damone gave her a sideways look. “Harry didn’t quite get back,” he said, and resumed drinking the beer.
    Stacy finished hers. “Off to the hotel,” she said. “I’m writing a new song.”
    â€œYou are jumpy.”
    â€œIt’s good, I think.” She stood. “Coming to the Parnells’?”
    â€œSwine city?” Damone tossed his can in a wastebasket. “I’d better count the gate. Rock ‘n’ roll’s a cash business, remember—like politics.” Turning, he gave her a keen, upward glance. “Isn’t