“Caleb didn’t even know, until a month ago.”

“Nope. After Eli died, Caleb’s mom was adamant that he not be told. She wanted him to grow up out of the spotlight. Everyone honored that. But we’ve of course had our eye on him. And I mean, I can’t put Dangerheart on a bill of this magnitude just based on that performance at the Trial.”

“Caleb doesn’t want to make it on his dad’s name,” I say.

Jason laughs. “Is that the career advice he’s getting from Moonstone Artist Management?”

“It’s—They’re going to be great on their own,” I say.

Jason shrugs. “Maybe. But . . .” He points back to the flyer. “Come on. Ask me how I knew.”

“How you knew . . .”

“How did I know that Caleb knew? That’s the question, isn’t it?”

He’s right. It is my question. I just didn’t want to ask it.

Jason doesn’t wait for me to ask. Cue full-on shark grin, multiple rows of jagged whites, as he says, “You told me.”

I feel a flush of nerves, heart scrambling, and I try to think of what I could have done. I haven’t posted anything about it. . . .

“Or I should say, you gave me the hint. Let’s see . . .” Jason is searching on his phone. “Here: ‘People have this idea about LA. I have that idea and I live here. But then there is this other LA . . .’ You posted that on Friday night to Twitter and BandSpace.”

“So what? And also, it’s creepy that you’re looking at my posts.”

“Not really. Like I said at the Trial, your band made an impression, and so later that night I was sussing them out online, and conveniently, BandSpace automatically includes location tags on all posts, which is a very nifty feature for fans to find a gig. And that’s how I knew this post was from Canter’s Deli.”

Location tag. Dammit! I knew they weren’t on Twitter, but it never occurred to me to check BandSpace.

“I’ve heard all the stories about Canter’s,” says Jason. “My dad went there with the band all the time. I’d seen you leave the party with Caleb, and it was so curious to me that you went there with him, not to mention his uncle Randy. He was tight with Eli, back in the day.”

“We were hungry,” I say weakly.

“Of course you were. But I stopped by Canter’s the next day and talked to good ol’ Vic.”

Oh no.

“He told me you guys were there. That it was Eli’s son. He even put you in their old booth.” Jason nods to the poster. “So I figured Caleb must have known about his dad, and you’ve now confirmed with me that he does.”

I look at the poster, trying to keep my breathing calm. Waiting. Does Jason know anything else? Vic had been helping Eli keep the secret of the tape for fifteen years. He wouldn’t have told Jason about it, would he? He hasn’t mentioned anything about the tapes yet. I try to steer us away from them. “Caleb doesn’t want to get famous because of his father’s name.”

Jason smiles. “I bet you’ve tried to convince him otherwise. Obviously, it would be the thing to say about Dangerheart, wouldn’t it?”

This makes me flush. It’s one of the first things I tried. Ugh, but I am not like Jason! “I respect his decision,” I say. “And we already have a gig in San Fran.” I have the overwhelming urge to get out of here. “So . . . about that interview with your dad.”

Jason grimaces. “Yeah, about that. I don’t know, you won’t be my intern, you won’t let Dangerheart open for my band . . .”

“You said all I had to do was come down here.”

“The first rule of negotiation is get the band through the door.” Jason looks at me and suddenly his face is serious, a gleam in his eyes, and though I’ve been making shark jokes all along, this is the first time that he looks truly predatory. “Summer, I can’t help but think . . . Caleb finds out about his dad, you guys visit Canter’s . . . the very next thing you do is book a gig in SFO, which, don’t think I don’t know, was the next stop on the band’s final tour.”

“Was it?” Stay calm, stay calm.

“I’m pretty sure it was, considering I was there. I was only twelve when dad took me along for a few shows and I mostly had to hang out in the hotel, but I still remember the route.”

“We’re only going to San Fran because it makes sense as a first tour from here. I was trying for San Diego, too, it just didn’t come through.”

Jason continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “And to top it off, then you want to meet with my dad.”

“Well, just because Caleb has some questions. He just wants to know Eli better—”

“Or . . .” Jason pauses. “There’s something else.” What does he know? It’s making me crazy. He turns and looks out the window. “Everybody was really mad at Eli on that tour. Even a twelve-year-old could tell. He was erratic, tanking shows, not to mention holding up the new album, and that was before he blew the whole thing up and took off. There was even talk that he was holding out his new songs, the ones that never got finished.”

“I was never a big Allegiance to North fan,” I say.

“Strange circumstances around his death, too,” says Jason.

That’s a comment I can’t ignore. “What do you mean?”

“Just, all the legal battles at the time. Complicated stuff. Dad doesn’t like to talk about it. You should ask Randy. I’m surprised he’s never told any of it to Caleb. Maybe he feels guilty.”

“And why would he feel guilty?”

Jason shrugs. “Second rule of negotiation. Never play your whole hand. Last chance to be my intern, get your interview.”

Whatever part of me thought coming here or even interviewing Jarrod Fletcher was a good idea now just wants to get . . . out. Fast.

“Sorry,” I say. “I guess I’ll just go.”

Jason sighs. “Okay, then. Have fun on your little tour.” I expect more, like that he’s going to tell the band about the opening slot, but instead he just sits down and starts looking at his laptop like I’ve already left.

I let myself out. Royce is of course long gone, so I text Maya. People hurry by me in the hall. If I’m not invisible to them, I’m a nuisance. Standing there, the enormity of my failure starts to sink in. No meeting with Jerrod. No info on the second tape. And, if anything, I only raised Jason’s suspicions.

Finally Maya shows up. “Hey! How’d it go?” she asks as she leads me back through the cubicles.

“Like the Cold War, more or less.”

“Aww. I guess I was hoping to have you on board, but I know Jason’s a jerk. Nobody here likes him. Do you have time for a snack?” Maya asks hopefully. “I have a teensy expense account at the cafeteria, at least enough to split a chocolate croissant.”

“Okay.” I’m in no rush to get back to band practice with all this on my mind.

We head down a few floors to the cafeteria. While Maya goes through the line, I text Caleb that I won’t make practice. I suggest meeting up after to go see Pluto. He doesn’t respond. They’re probably running the set.

Maya’s a few people back at the register, and I notice that the walls are lined with framed black-and-white photos. I see pictures of Candy Shell’s biggest names, all caught in candid moments.

I walk the perimeter, and find shots here and there of Allegiance to North. There’s one where the band is standing in a Dumpster, wearing suits, visible only from the chest up. There’s a small accompanying photo from above and behind, revealing that they’re wearing no pants. I snap a photo to show to Caleb. He and his dad both with Dumpsters in their past.

The next wall is somber: tribute photos to those who’ve died. Most are serious, reflective shots. I find Eli’s, and expect the tortured artist, but his is actually kind of playful. He’s crouched down on one knee, hugging a grinning golden retriever. He gazes up at the camera, his eyes in dark circles, stubble on his face, but lit by a weary grin. It twists me, and I fight back tears.

“Okay, finally.” Maya arrives beside me. “Oh . . .”

“It’s okay,” I say, brushing at my eyes. “This wall is just a bummer.” I take one last look at the photo, my eye dropping to the tiny card beneath it that reads:

Eli White 1976–1998

And I’ve almost turned away when the text below stops me in my tracks:

With Daisy at Ear Socket Records, San Francisco

16

MoonflowerAM @catherinefornevr 32m


This traffic knows we have planets to visit. Oh, it knows, and it grins its chrome grin and we go nowhere. #LAsubway

I miss the ideal bus by mere seconds, watching it pull away as I wait to cross the street, and the second one is late, and then the 405 is a mess, and by the time an hour has gone by I’m reconsidering everything. Catherine, sitting in her own car, could exit and try another route. Hell, she wouldn’t even be in Malibu at all this afternoon. She wouldn’t miss the Pluto expedition.

But then she’d never know Caleb in the first place.

Traffic fail, I text him.

He doesn’t reply, and hasn’t to my earlier text yet either. When he finally does we’re moving, but it’s almost six and so what he says doesn’t surprise me: It’s all good. Pluto another day. Things came up anyway. Rain check on tonight?

Absolutely not! Will be late but not missing our date. We’ve had this plan all week, first Pluto, and then Sacred Cow, and then the Prism, a second-run theater in the little downtown of Mount Hope that operates on an arts grant. This month they’re showing the early works of the Coen brothers and tonight it’s Barton Fink. I add: Just go ahead and order when you get there.

Do I know what you like?


Pretty sure you do. ;)