"Dunno what to tell you," Basil said. "You'd have to do a lot more than sing for me to keep you in nose candy. This point, you're costing me money."
Dani had been shaking for two days. "What about Play—"
"Been trying hard not to tell you. Three months ago, they'd have written you a check with six figures. Now, you're not even a has-been. You're an almost-was."
"I need a fix."
"Fix? You need to pay rent." Basil started to say something, hesitated, and started back toward the door. "Tell you what, there's some other rags that might give you a few bucks. Not very classy, though. Didn't think you'd be willing—"
"Set it up. I don't care."
Three days later, Dani sipped whiskey and counted her money in a seedy LA bar, vaguely aware of a band running sound checks in the corner. She couldn't believe what she'd done for a couple shots of heroin and just enough cash to stop the eviction proceedings. She scratched the red welts rising on her arm. She'd never injected before and part of her worried about sharing that needle with the other girls. But it had been the only way she could afford it. And who cares? Maybe better if it ends anyway.
"Take a number, I'm full," Dani said over her shoulder as someone sat on the next barstool over. She hadn't paid for any of her drinks yet and didn't expect to. She was still pretty enough for that, at least.
Whoever it was didn't relocate, so she turned to face him. Fresh-faced kid. Definitely didn't belong here. Something familiar about him.
"Played keys on your record," he said. "You look terrible."
"Thanks."
"This is my last gig in this kind of place," the kid said, ordering a Coke. "Gave my life to Christ just before we did your record and I've never felt quite right about it since."
"Don't want to hear it." Dani drained the shot glass.
"Neither did I, but you need to," The kid said, sipping his soda and trying to make eye contact. "Look, that clown that represents you told me you were a choir girl when he found you. Thought it was real funny. Kept lacing your drinks. Thought that was funny, too." The kid hung his head. "Guess I should have said something then."
Dani tapped her glass on the bar and pointed at the kid when the bartender approached.
"He can play in the band, but he can't buy you no drinks."
Neither could she, technically, but no one had carded her. Dani fished out a five, glaring at the kid as the bartender poured. "You're getting expensive to have around."
"Look, I'm just saying. The guy said he had to get a restraining order to keep your brother away. Maybe you should just go—"
"Maybe you should go to hell!"
"Already been." The kid pushed away from the bar. "Never going back. You don't have to, either."
Dani considered calling a cab. You'd think, of all places, I could avoid being preached at in a bar. Really should go home, anyway. She'd drank more than usual and knew she was going to regret it in the morning. I can figure out what comes next later. Maybe more photo shoots. She shuddered. She'd never felt so degraded, even around Basil. Oh well, at least they're small publications. One of them wasn't even a real publication. It was for some new thing called the Web or something like that. Only a handful of computer nerds even knew anything about it. No one I know will ever see them. And if I downgrade, I might be able to find a dumpy apartment I can afford that way.
Across the bar, a worn-out woman laughed at the attention men on either side of her offered. She looked like she'd been pretty once, now a hollow-cheeked bleach blonde with way too much eyeshadow and tracks running the length of her skinny arms.
I need a fix.
The lady wouldn't share, but she told Dani where to find her dealer. San Julian Street. Dani had never been to Skid Row. She'd never needed to buy her own drugs. She jingled her keys and stumbled out the door.
Dani walked back to her car with six balloons of heroin and a plan to pay the rent. She'd had the solution all along and couldn't believe she hadn't thought of it. Bobby's Les Paul. Even at a pawn shop, it would bring in enough for a couple months' rent—longer if she downgraded from the band's flat. Too much apartment for just me, anyway. Might even be able to trade for a secondhand Peavey or some other decent-but-not-classic guitar and still walk away with enough to keep a roof over my head.
She found herself wondering where Bobby got the guitar in the first place. He'd never said. Never even seemed to realize what he had. She felt a twinge of guilt about pawning it. After all, Bobby's mom said he'd wanted her to have it. But Bobby's gone, and you can't eat sentiments, much less shoot them up. Besides, maybe I can get it back after a few more photo shoots.
Her stomach churned. Maybe I could get a real job instead. Not like I don't have any skills. Gotta be a body shop that would hire me somewhere in LA.
Dani got in the car and pulled a balloon from her pocket. Better wait till I get home. If this stuff's as good as the guy said, I won't be able to drive after. Still pretty buzzed as it is.
Half a mile from home, red-and-blue lights flooded Dani's rearview mirror.
"Yeah, driving under the influence ain't the half of it," LAPD Officer Brown said to the booking officer as he guided Dani toward the counter by the cuffs behind her back. "Six balloons. And stolen property. Get this—remember that guitar stolen out of Lieutenant Yates' car three years ago? Let's just say I'm on the fast track to make sergeant."
"Yeah, well tell it to the new kid," the booking officer said. "Time for my smoke break."
Dani stared at her shoes. She could hear the ear-to-ear grin in the officer's voice as he recounted the story of his big catch for the benefit of the booking officer's replacement. He was in the middle of explaining all about the lieutenant's missing guitar and how the perp claimed a friend had given it to her. "Amazing, ain't it, just how many people give stolen stuff away?"
"Dani?" A familiar female voice.
Her head throbbed, and every muscle turned to jelly as her eyes adjusted to the fluorescent lighting.
"Julie?"
"You two know each other? This story just keeps getting better."
Julie's voice was strained as she walked Dani through the fingerprinting, mug shot, and paperwork.
"You're in serious trouble, you know?" she whispered. "If that guitar's worth more than one thousand dollars, you're looking at a felony. And six balloons? They could charge you with intent to distribute."
Dani kept her eyes on her socks. They'd taken her shoes.
"You get a phone call. Number still the same?"
Dani heard her start to dial.
"Don't call home! Here, call 226-9630."
Julie shook her head. "What happened?"
"Just give me my call. Please."