Different Circles

“Are you sure about that?” Pauline asked. “Are you certain that there isn’t some low-level flunky getting paid minimum wage to endure endless bus rides and then haul your trusses and heft your amps day after day who might be resentful that you and the band get to sleep until ten every morning in fucking hotel suites and then just fly to the next date?”

“I am certain,” Celia said confidently. “Although it might be helpful to describe the phenomenon of the troll to them and warn them against falling into that trap.”

Pauline nodded. “I’ll take you at your word for that,” she said. “Mostly because it’s all I can do. What about the hotel employees?”

“Again, they have nothing but speculation to go on,” Celia said. “None of them have ever seen us in an intimate moment with each other. And, while they might have seen some of Teach’s groupies coming and going, I don’t think they would talk to the press about it. Hotel privacy is a big thing these days and it was actually Jake and Helen and Greg that were instrumental in making that happen. Remember? After the manager at that hotel in Omaha outed Jake and Helen, he got fired and blackballed and the entire chain got boycotted by musicians and the SAG forever. And even if someone did talk, it would also be mere speculation, easily denied. Laura just likes to hang out with fans. Every once in a while, she invites one back to the hotel for a drink or two because she’s lonely out on the road. There is no sexual activity involved.”

“Good points,” Pauline said. “But what if one of Laura’s groupies decides to talk? What then?”

“The same deal,” Celia said. “Deny, deny, deny. It’s some puta’s word against Laura’s. And the puta would have a hard time establishing that she even came back to Laura’s room with her, let alone what happened in there. It’s not like records are kept about this sort of thing.”

Pauline thought this over for a moment and then nodded. “Okay,” she said. “I guess that makes sense as well.”

“His fucking copilot!” Suzie suddenly shouted out, apparently having reached that part of the article. “I swear to God, that motherfucker is going down.”

She did not know how accurate that statement really was, or that she should be using the past tense instead of the future tense. But she was about to find out.

At the moment, the phone began to ring.

“Madres de Dios, what now?” Celia asked as she stood up. She walked over to the extension that sat on the bar and picked it up. “Marie Vasquez’s room.”

“Uh ... Ms. Valdez?” said an unfamiliar voice.

“This is Marie Vasquez’s room,” Celia said, emphasizing the name. “To whom am I speaking?”

“My name is Brian Comp, Ms. uh ... Vasquez. I’m the day manager here at the hotel.”

“Oh ... I see,” she said. “I guess you can call me Ms. Valdez then. What can I do for you?”

“Well ... there’s sort of a situation here that I think you need to be aware of.”

“What kind of situation?” she asked. “Are there reporters and paparazzi outside?”

“Yes, there are,” he confirmed, “but that is not why I called. You see ... well ... an emergency medical response was initiated to Room 403. The occupant of that room is one of your pilots. The fire department and the ambulance came and took him to the hospital.”

“Njord?” she asked. “What kind of emergency did he have?”

“It seems that he was assaulted and beaten quite badly. His face was kind of a mess when they wheeled him by my desk.”

“Assaulted?” she asked incredulously. “By whom?”

“I don’t know that facts of the matter, Ms. Valdez, but ... well ... the police are here too. And they are talking right now to Mr. Cooper in the lobby. And Mr. Cooper is currently in handcuffs and is bleeding from both of his hands.”

Celia looked up at the ceiling. “Madres de Dios,” she said, shaking her head.

Njord and Coop were both taken to the Eastern Maine Medical Center emergency room. Njord arrived there by ambulance. Coop arrived there by police car, in custody for assault with great bodily harm, a class C felony in the state of Maine. Njord suffered a broken jaw, two broken teeth, a split lip, two black eyes, and a concussion. Coop suffered a fracture to the fifth metacarpal of his right hand—commonly known as a boxer’s fracture—and lacerations to the knuckles of both hands caused by impacting Njord’s teeth. Two of the lacerations required suturing to close. He also had to be placed on prophylactic antibiotics and get a tetanus shot. Njord was kept overnight for observation. Coop was there for two hours and then was taken to the Penobscot County jail for booking. He was not there long enough to even change into jail clothes or eat real jail food. Pauline posted bail for him by writing a check for the full amount.

“Why, Coop?” Pauline asked him once they made it through the gauntlet of reporters, photographers, and just plain curious who had staked out the entrances to the Sheraton of Bangor in response to the New England Report article. “Why did you beat his ass like that?”