Rock & Roll Homicide Read Online Free Page B

fax machine.
    While we waited, Bernie reminded me of a night at the club shortly after I started carrying a gun. At the time, a stick-up man was ripping off local bands. We were usually paid in cash after our gig and would frequently find ourselves in a dark alley behind a club at 2:30 AM. Since my dad was a cop and I handled the money, I got elected for security detail.
    One night, after collecting our pay and hanging with Bernie until the band had time to load the equipment into our truck, I walked into the alley behind the club. I immediately heard a voice screaming about money. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw a crazed junkie holding a hypodermic needle less than an inch from our bass player’s neck. “I’ve got AIDS!” he screamed. “Give me the money or this guy’s as good as dead!”
    The rest of the band was frozen in front of the junkie, saying the money guy hasn’t come out yet. I had the gun on a belt holster in the small of my back. I quietly pulled it out, took careful aim and yelled, “Put the needle down or I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off!” As the junkie turned to look at me I screamed, “RIGHT NOW!”
    It was very clear to me, the band and especially the junkie, that I wasn’t bluffing. He carefully laid his spike on the ground, raised his hands and said, “I crashing man. I wouldn’t have stuck him.” Then he sprinted down the alley. My first instinct was to chase him, but Kyle, the bass player, started hyperventilating and I thought he was having a heart attack. I stopped to help and the junkie was long gone.
    “That was a life or death situation and you handled yourself very well, as I recall,” Bernie said.
    “I thought of that scene many times when I was weighing my decision to become a detective. Until today, I thought I’d be a lot cooler under fire,” I said.
    “Actually, you are,” Bernie said. “I’m sure you’ve replayed that scene in your head a thousand times, but you probably forgot that we sat here in this office and talked until 10:00 the next morning. You were on an adrenaline high that the junkie would have died for. Tonight you’re not even a quarter as amped as you were that night.”
    “Really?” I asked. “I forgot all about what happened afterwards.”
    “The last thing San Diego needs is a detective who thinks shooting people is part of the job description.” As he was finishing his point, the fax machine stopped printing.
    He got me set up with pen and a notebook and began analyzing the content. When he read a section he thought could have a bearing on the case he gave his expert opinion and answered all of my questions.
    “Bernie, what do you think? What stands out the most?” I asked.
    He replied, “As you know, I worked as an agent for 17 years. Since I became a club owner a lot of bands, managers and agents have asked my opinion on record contracts. The thing that screams at me is that the owner or ownership group has business experience, but not recording industry experience.”
    “How so?” I asked.
    “The contract has a couple of giant loopholes that could easily be exploited by somebody who knows the established legal precedents in recording industry contract law,” he said.
    I asked, “What would be the record company’s motive?”
    “There was no way of telling if the Internet piracy issue would be resolved quickly when the contract was written. You had a talented new band with some name recognition and some terrific new material, jumping into a bad contract market. Along comes a new record company, anxious to attract talent. I know from personal experience that Terry got involved in contract negotiations and knew how to mix charm with a knack for getting his way. I’d guess it didn’t take long for him to figure out he was dealing with amateurs and he managed to plant a hidden time bomb in the contract that would enable him to call the shots if the first two CD’s performed well,” he said.
    “Was Terry the kind of