31. Scott
THIRTY-ONE
SCOTT
“Is the time on that correct?” I ask, pointing to a large wall clock and taking my phone out to double check the time.
No messages. But I’m running out of time. It’s almost nine already, and I don’t know anything more than I did earlier. Nothing substantial anyway. No confessions.
I’ve heard stories about his time as Lest Is Moore’s manager, both good and bad. I told him a little about my past. All a bunch of bullshit small talk to get him to open up to me, but he’s too smart for me to force the topic.
“Time flies when you’re having fun,” Francis smirks.
“Yeah it does. Thanks for this. Not just buying me dinner, but… I dunno. I think I’ve been so deep in everybody else’s shit I forgot I’m a person too.”
“That life will do it to ya,” he says. “Do you think you’re ready for a different type of position?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you think you’d like to continue traveling and guarding over-hyped celebrities while they puke behind the stage? Or do you think you might want a more stable position, maybe as head of security?”
“Oh,” I chuckle. “Well, I went from being a bouncer to this, and I haven’t been doing it that long.
So I think I have a while to go before I can start thinking that big.
I thought about looking for a position in a luxury building or something, like an upgraded bouncer. The traveling jobs pay better, though.”
Francis gives me an assessing look and sucks his teeth. “Sometimes who you know is more important than experience.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m trying to say that when this is said and done, how would you feel about taking a position as head of security?
My brow furrows and I sit up a little straighter. “Where?”
“Just imagine how good it would feel to walk back in that building after they fired you and take what you deserve? To look Cory in his face and tell him you’re his boss now.
To be the one to personally escort Blake Holland out of the building after watching his smug ass get handed his walking papers? ”
“Definitely nice to fantasize about whenever I get twitchy.”
“It’s not a fantasy, Scott. I can help make it happen.”
My head drops to the side, studying him from a new angle. “Are you going to elaborate, or is this another one of your vague statements?” I smile good naturedly, so he doesn’t feel like I’m complaining.
Francis bites his bottom lip and looks around, as if anyone nearby might be listening. Then bends forward, his forearms on the table, hands clasped similarly to how Blake does when he’s having a serious conversation.
“This is privileged information,” he says, pausing to emphasize his point.
“Who the fuck am I going to tell? We already discussed this. I have no life, no family, and no friends.”
“Things are going to be… changing at the label. New blood. New leadership. New rules.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve been acting as an unofficial liaison for the company that’s going to be taking over.
It’s my job to ensure a smooth transition, specifically the Lest Is Moore account.
I’ve been working behind the scenes to collect information and pull some strings to ensure the band can be brought to heel.
The company is going to want loyalists on that team to make sure everyone falls in line. ”
“What does that mean exactly, fall in line?”
“No more political bullshit, no more stunts. Just look pretty and sing what we tell you, or you’re out on your ass.”
My eyes widen. “If you could make those guys fall in line like that, you should consider running for president,” I say, laughing lightly.
Francis isn’t amused. He shrugs. “It’s what a good manager does. As much as I went above and beyond to ensure their submission, there might be an executive position for me. Hell, I did such a good job they might not even want what’s left of Lest Is Moore.”
“Is that why you…” I lean forward and lower my voice. “You never said it for sure, but I know you’re responsible for the bomb threat and the drones.”
Francis is laughing now. “Just a harmless prank to get their attention. They were never in any real danger. Technically, Curtis did the legwork for those, but it was my idea.”
“Curtis planted the bomb?”
“He got someone from one of his radical idiot forums to do it for him. He made it though, so it looked legitimate enough to be taken seriously. No one was in any danger though.”
I shake my head, unable to keep the grin off my face. I fucking did it! I got him to fucking say it and he implicated Curtis Howard. Fuck yeah!
“You’re diabolical.”
“You think that’s good… Who do you think orchestrated the chaos that got the resistance tour shut down?”
“Are you serious?”
Whatever he’s seeing on my face is enough to make him extremely proud of himself. He crosses his arms and looks smug as fuck when he tells me the rest.
“Honestly, it didn’t take much. Once the new hires were set up in the secure system, I could see all the new tour dates.
All I had to do was make a few anonymous posts in some of those forums that Curtis runs, and then use screenshots of those posts to tip off the authorities that a violent protest was being planned. ”
“Holy shit.”
“The really fucked up part is that some of the cops and riot police are in that group, so I probably didn’t even have to tip anyone off. I was just covering all my bases.”
“So you’ve been behind it all,” I say, honestly not even faking my horrified awe. “From the very beginning. The tabloids and conservative media getting ahold of private information, Jesse’s cloud being hacked… all leading up to this takeover?”
Francis shrugs. “I’m persistent. It’s what makes me good at my job.”
“You son of a bitch.”
Francis laughs. He thinks I’m being facetious when really I’m ready to end this whole thing right here and now. Only, I’m liable to bash his face in before the feds can intervene.
Francis’ watch beeps. “Oh, we should probably head over there.”
“Oh, shit, yeah. It’s time. Damn. Like you said… Time flies.”
We leave the small outdoor courtyard of the restaurant and head across the plaza.
“You’re quiet all of a sudden.”
“Heh. I guess I’m a little nervous. I feel like we’re in some kind of spy movie,” I say, remembering AJ León the other day when he and his buddies acted as stand-ins to divert attention for the guys to get to safety.
“Too bad you weren’t with me from the beginning, your mind would have been blown.”
“Still is, if I’m being honest.”
“Stick with me, kid. We’re going to get what we deserve.”
“I damn sure hope so.”
The block is eerily quiet when we arrive, the locker facility is vacant and the souvenir shop next door is closed, leaving the street close to empty.
There’s no sign of anyone watching or standing by.
Are they here yet? Did they hear everything?
Or anything at all? I’m not sure what I’ll do if none of that conversation was picked up.
If Naz, Cory, and Blake weren’t able to dig up anything incriminating, will just being here be enough?
If this guy walks free after everything I heard him say, I don’t think I could handle it.
The door chimes when we walk in. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting a yellowish haze over the room.
“It’s over this way,” I say, pointing him to where the locker is.
“Yeah, I know.”
I raise an eyebrow at him.
“I was here. I think you almost saw me, actually, but you tripped over some boxes. I guess that’s the downside to being as tall as you are, eh?” He snickers. “I saw Naz, too. That self-important jackass was too busy looking at his reflection in the glass to notice me walk right by.”
“Yeah, guess so,” I say, imagining using my fist to hammer him into the ground like a tent spike.
When we reach the locker, I start to enter the code, then step back. “Shit, sorry. Did you want to do the honors?”
“It’s fine. Please proceed,” he says, gesturing oh-so graciously.
Once the locker is open, I pull open the door and do a ridiculous bow-wave like a butler revealing his next course. Francis hums his approval and reaches inside.
No sooner does the backpack leave the confines of the locker than a dozen officers wearing black padded vests, helmets, and holding automatic weapons pop out of nowhere.
“FBI! Don’t move!”
Instinctively, I throw up my hands. Francis drops the backpack like it’s on fire.
“Put your hands behind your head,” a man calls out from behind us.
I do what he says, my heart hammering. Francis does the same, murmuring quietly, “Let me do the talking.”
An officer steps up behind Francis at the same time that I’m shoved face first against the lockers, hands pulled behind my back.
Metal digs into my wrists as the cuffs are locked in place.
My feet are kicked apart, face still against the locker, while the officer pats down my barely there shorts.
My cellphone and wallet are removed from my pockets.
I think maybe they’re speaking to me, but everything is happening so fast I can barely process that I’m being arrested.
“We are not resisting,” Francis announces as he’s cuffed, albeit nowhere nearly as roughly as I was. I suppose there’s another downside to being a walking refrigerator as Naz likes to call me.
The flash of fear in Francis’ eyes is worth however long I have to spend in cuffs until I’m cleared. I know Naz, Cory, and Blake will tell them I’m not actually part of this, that I’m undercover or something. Although that sounds stupid now that I’m surrounded by a dozen federal officers.
We’re led out of the building with cameras flashing behind us, the agents taking photos for evidence. There are cameras in front of us, too. A few press, maybe. Random people on the street who came to see why there are so many law enforcement vehicles blocking the road.
The flashing lights of at least half a dozen cop cars blinds me as we step further out of the building.