Mickey hesitates. “Tom’s probably having a hard time getting hold of you. I got bounced around till they connected me to your room and—”
“What’s the good news, Mickey? You said there’s good news.”
“Look, Tom feels terrible about what happened. He wants to talk. I’m sure he’ll reach out today.”
Yeah, now that Donnie’s getting all this media attention. The nurse told Donnie that he’s been all over the TV, and that the morning shows called the hospital asking to interview him. That there are news vans and lots of fans camped outside the hospital. Donnie hasn’t turned on the old set mounted to the ceiling, but based on all the visitors, he believes her.
“I’ll let Tom talk to you about the band,” Mickey says. “I’m calling about something else.”
That’s interesting. Mickey doesn’t usually talk to Donnie at all. He’s on Team Tom. The team that let Donnie and the other original members of Tracer’s Bullet get screwed out of what was theirs.
“What is it?”
“A book agent reached out to me. Some big publishers are interested in your story, Don.”
“My story?”
“Yeah, you know, like an autobiography. They’ve been selling well. Nikki Sixx has one. Dave Grohl. People eat this shit up now.”
But it’s not like Donnie was in M?tley Crüe or Nirvana or the Foo Fighters. “All ’cause I fell out of a boat?”
Mickey chuckles. “Who knows? But the advance is six figures.”
Donnie thinks about this. His life story. Not an uplifting tale. But six figures, even low six figures, would help with the bills. Put something away for his goddaughter.
“What do I know about writing a book? I write songs, not books.”
“That’s the beauty of this thing, Don. You don’t have to. They got this hotshot writer. All you gotta do is meet with the guy—tell him about your life, feed him some war stories from back in the day—he’ll get it all down, lickety-split.”
“I don’t know, I—”
“Offers like this don’t come along every day. You gotta strike while the iron’s hot.”
Before his plunge off the Royal Voyager rotates out of the news cycle.
Donnie is quiet. He thinks about his mom, the group home, terrain he doesn’t want to revisit.
“You there?” Mickey says. There’s noise in the background, someone saying “check” into a PA system.
Mickey’s at rehearsal. Tom’s probably there right now. So much for him not having the hospital room’s phone number.
“I need to think about it.”
Now Mickey is quiet. He clearly thinks it’s a no-brainer. “How about this: Meet with the writer, see what you think? The agent already flew him down to Miami from New York.”
“I’m checking out of the hospital today, so I won’t be—”
“Where you staying? He can be at your hotel by dinnertime.”
Donnie realizes that the wheels on this are already in motion.
“Nothing to lose, Don. They’ll buy you an expensive meal. No commitment. Just talk to the guy.”
“All right. But make it clear I’m not sure about this. I’m staying at the Fontainebleau.”
“Nice. I love the Fontainebleau,” Mickey says. “Sinatra and the Rat Pack used to hang there. I’ll tell him to meet you in the Hakkasan Bar in the hotel at seven.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
NICO
Nico is burning up. He’s in that space between consciousness and dream. Sweat rolls from his brow, his pits feel like a swamp. The wound on his shoulder may be infected. He’s at the beach, the magical day with his mom when he was eleven—the blissful ignorance of not knowing that this was her goodbye.
She’d given him a necklace with a pendant. “It’s a Saint Christopher, like mine.”
“What’s a Saint Christopher?”
“He keeps you safe on your journeys.”
Nico still wears the necklace, though he’s since learned that Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, was demoted by the church for some reason. They probably assumed the guy was an asshole. Nico knows the feeling.
His mind flutters about, a dragonfly hovering over himself. Another bead of sweat travels from his forehead, down his cheek, over his chin. It feels like condensation from a cold beer on a hot summer day.
Summer.
Then he’s back in Chestertown, Pennsylvania, in July.
“It’s hot as shit out here,” he says. He passes the liter bottle of Mountain Dew to Annie. They sit on top of the octagon-shaped monkey bars in the dilapidated park. The bars are rusted and there’s no shade and he hopes he’s not sweating too much.
Annie says, “Um, can I ask: Where are your shoes?” She eyes his dirty feet and he’s embarrassed, but only a little. “You didn’t lose them playing cards with those older kids, did you?”
Nico feigns insult. “No, Donnie’s trying out for the talent show tonight,” he says. “They keep making fun of him, calling him hillbilly, and he wasn’t going to go because of the holes in his shoes.
So I…” Nico wiggles his toes. If there’s one thing Nico hates, it’s a bully.
Annie doesn’t say anything, but she reaches for his hand, which sends electricity slicing through him.
Nico tries to play it cool, hopes his palm isn’t sweaty. His eyes move to the new girl who’s on the swing. She’s swaying slowly, a distant expression on her face.
“What’s up with her?” Nico asks.
Annie shrugs. “I heard her parents died in a car crash.”
Nico doesn’t say anything. They all have sad stories; all different, yet all the same.
Annie says, “They gave her the welcome treatment last night. She and Marta slept at the tree house.”
Nico releases a sigh. “I heard them fucking around, but I didn’t know they were messing with any of you. Where was Mr. Brood?”
“Men’s Club.” On Wednesday evenings, the businessmen of Chestertown get together to pretend they’re big shots.
They’ll stay at the park until dark. It’s better than the house, which is crowded and where Mr.
Brood will put them to work cleaning the bathrooms or doing other made-up chores. But once the sky dusks, it’s not safe here.
Annie takes a drink of pop and tosses him the candy. They pooled their money—the four dollars they got from the recycling center. She points across the park. “There’s Arty.”
Artemis Templeton, another one of the Savior House kids, pulls an old wagon, the wheel wobbling along the broken sidewalk on the perimeter of the park. Inside the wagon is a computer monitor and a tangle of cables and cords. Dumpster diving at the RadioShack again. He says he’s going to build the next Microsoft, but bigger. Arty’s a strange dude. Probably will be a gazillionaire someday, but strange. The kids call him The Robot because of his monotone inflection.
Annie glances around. She sighs.
There’re no kids. No responsible adult would bring their children here to play on the blacktop strewn with broken bottles, used condoms, and even a needle or two. The seesaw is a broken plank.
“You think we’ll ever get out of here?” she asks.