Chapter Two
He took the high road, trying to keep out of sight, his journey eventually taking him to the roof of an apartment building a few block from the Pad. Anger and humiliation and hurt warred within him, along with stung pride.
Why hadn’t they ever scolded Micky about going off on his own? The drummer had come back torn and bloody—half dead—and they hadn’t said a word! I go out and rid the neighborhood of some hoodlums and I’m in the wrong!?
There was a sudden whoosh of air and a tonfa bounced to the ground at Davy’s feet. “Thought you might need this,” a soft voice come from behind and above him. Davy dropped his suitcase and whirled, fists raised.
Micky was half-sitting, half-squatting on the base of the antenna on the roof. “I’m not going to fight you,” he said as he dropped from it to the roof.
“Then why’d you come up here?” Davy snapped, snatching up the weapon.
“To apologize.”
“For what?”
“Them. Me. Everything.”
Davy sighed. “It’ll work out better this way, Micky. I’m tired of getting hidden behind you guys.”
Micky licked his lips, “I’m not gonna tell you to come home. You’re a grown man, you can make your own choices. But I will tell you if you ever need help—or just need to talk—blow on by.” He smiled close-mouthed. “And besides . . . you know where we are.”
Davy nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind. Tell Peter and Mike goodbye?”
“I will. But this isn’t really goodbye—is it?”
Davy turned away, hiding the tears clouding his eyes. “I don’t know. It just might be.”
~~~~~
Mistress walked into the lobby of the hotel and sat down, waiting for the ex-photographer. He’d called that morning in a state of great excitement, his words tumbling out in a tangle—at first the only parts she’d understood were Monkee and photographs; that was enough for her to grant him a meeting.
He arrived slightly late, tugging at his castoff army green jacket. His blond hair was even more tangled than usual, making him look more like a destitute hippie than a professional photographer who’d once worked for Chic magazine.
“I send you money, Robert,” she said evenly. “You would do well to invest in a comb.”
“S-Sorry,” he stammered. “I’ve been . . . occupied.”
“And just what, pray tell, has been occupying you?”
Here Rob Roy smiled, pulling a large envelope out from behind his back with the flare of a magician. “These,” he said triumphantly.
She opened the envelope and removed the pictures. A golden eyebrow arched as she studied them. “Dan,” she said at length. “The Tiger.”
“You know him?”
“Oh, yes. We’ve had . . . dealings.”
Rob Roy just nodded, knowing that asking her to elaborate was not a wise idea.
“Was this why you wished to see me?”
“Yes, Mistress.” He paused. “I’ve had ‘dealings’ with them too. They took my job from me. No, not my job—my life.”
“Your life?” She was well aware of his former occcupation and how he’d lost it—it was the reason he’d come to her, begging for her to use her power and influence to get it back. But she’d never before heard him describe it as his life.
He nodded. “Taking pictures defined me. I was famous, in demand—they used to talk about how high I’d go. Then . . . they came along and it all ended.” Pausing again, he seemed to briefly weigh the wisdom of his next statement before deciding to say it. “I want revenge.”
“Don’t we all, Robert?” she asked mildly, smiling at him. “But revenge is a . . . complicated business. If I am to devote my time to this I need your complete obedience . . . and a reciprocal favor.”
With a gallant flourish that showed just a touch of his old self he took her hand and kissed it, bowing as he did. “Anything for you, Mistress.”
“Excellent.” She pressed a key into his hand. “Use my suite. Clean yourself up and order yourself some clothes. You need to be presentable for this.”
Rob Roy took the key with a shaking hand. “And then?”
“And then I’ll tell you your task.” She smiled and lifted the envelope. “But thank you for the pictures.” She stood up and walked smoothly out the hotel.
Rob Roy headed up to the room, conten with the knowledge that Mistress would soon be using his photographs against the Monkees . . . and Davy Jones in particular.
~~~~~
Micky walked back into the Pad and smiled at the other two. “Found him.”
Peter bounced out of his chair. “You did? Where is he?” He peered around Micky. “I don’t see him.”
“He didn’t come with me. He needs some time to get his head on straight.”
Peter tried to hide his disappointment. “Oh. Well, at least you found him.”
He nodded. “Where’s Mike?”
“Out on the beach.”
Micky nodded and headed out there. Mike was standing at the water’s edge, barefoot and shirtless, hurling stones into the ocean. “Hey.”
“Hey,” was the Texan’s quiet response.
“You okay?” Mike just shrugged, hurling another stone. “I found him,” Micky said.
“Where is he?” Another stone rocketed into the surf.
“He was on the roof over on Sheridan.”
“Figures.” Another stone.
“We talked and . . . he’s not coming back for a while.”
Mike stopped and sighed. “I just don’t understand what happened.”
Micky sat down. “Mike . . . do we smother him?”
Mike stuck his hands in his pockets. “I never thought we did. But I’ve been thinking . . . maybe we have been treatin’ him like a kid brother. Just didn’t know we were.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
“If . . . when he comes back we’ll have to change the way we talk to him.”
Micky looked out over the ocean. “Yeah. I just hope he’s okay.”
~~~~~
Rob Roy stood in front of the mirror and combed his long hair, which hung down in limp, wet strands. Mistress would be back soon, and he had to be ready. She’ll show me how to get my revenge, I’m sure.
The door opened and Mistress walked in. “My, my—you clean up nicer than I’d expect, Robert!”
He turned around quickly, bouncing as she startled him. “Th-Thank you, Mistress.”
She walked over and circled him predatorially. “You’ve not been eating again, I see.”
“I haven’t had the money,” he admitted, his head hanging.
“Robert. No comb. No food. What have you been doing with the money I’ve been sending you?”
Rob Roy’s sarcastic streak emerged as he said, “Well, Mistress, photo supplies and film aren’t free, after all.”
“Aaaahhhh . . . yes. And only the best for you, yes?”
“Well . . . ”
She shook her head and tapped his side. “You must eat, Robert. If you starve, I lose my best photographer.”
He nodded. “I will, Mistress.”
She kissed his cheek and stepped back, eying the towel around his waist. “Get dressed and meet me in the living room.”
He pulled on his worn trousers and shirt quickly, tucking his shirt in and grabbing his jacket on the way out of the bathroom.
Mistress smiled at him. “I’ll have to get you clothing as well.”
He nodded. “What do you want me to do? I’m anxious for my revenge—”
“What did I tell you of revenge? It’s sweeter if you wait. Tomorrow morning, I need you to take detailed photographs of the hotel where the dance troupe is rumored to be staying when their tour brings them here in a few months. I need details in order to plan.”
“And then?” he asked.
“And then develop and deliver them. Should you encounter the Monkees before then, photograph them as well. Their movements will be tracked.”
“Mistress, forgive me,” he said softly. “But I don’t understand where this is going.” Their deal had been for her to help him get revenge in exchange for a favor, but so far he seemed to be doing all the work.
She smiled at him. “Don’t worry, Robert. *I* do.”
“I wish you would tell me.”
“Robert, do you trust that I know what is best?”
He paused. Did he? He didn’t really know her that well, other than her mysterious reputation. But she seemed to have the money to back up her claims. “Yes, I do.”
“Wonderful. Leave it at this—I have a plan. I require your photographs to put it in motion. Once it is in motion, the Monkees will have nowhere to turn.”
Rob Roy Fingerhead’s face creased into an evil smile.
On to Chapter Three
Back to Chapter One
Back to Secrets and Lies Index
