Public Secrets

had hit the floor. And he stank.
“Man, I’m sick.” He began to pull himself up, hand over sweaty hand on the bars. “I got the flu.”
The junkie flu, Pete thought dispassionately.
“You got to get me out.” Stevie wrapped his trembling fingers around the bars. Though his breath was stale, Pete didn’t back away. “It’s fucking crazy. They came into my house. Into my goddamn house like a bunch of bloody Nazis. They waved some kind of paper in front of my face and started pulling out drawers. Jesus, Pete, they dragged me in here like I was some kind of freaking murderer. They put handcuffs on me.” He began to cry again and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “People were watching when they took me out of my own house with handcuffs on me. They were taking pictures. It ain’t fucking right, Pete. It ain’t fucking right. You got to get me out.”
During the outburst Pete had stayed very still. His voice was low and calm. He’d handled crises before, and knew how to turn them in his favor. “They found heroin, Stevie, and what’s politely called drug paraphernalia. They’re going to charge you with possession.”
“Just get me the fuck out.”
“Are you listening to me?” The question whipped out, cool and quiet. “They found enough in your place to put you away.”
“It was planted. Somebody set me up. Somebody—”

“Don’t bullshit me.” His eyes hardened, but whatever disgust he felt he kept carefully inside. “You have two choices. You can go to jail, or you can go into a clinic.”
“I’ve got a right—”
“You’ve got no rights here. You’re messed up, Stevie. If you want me to help you, you’re going to do exactly what I tell you.”
“Just get me out.” Stevie sank to the floor and folded into himself. “Just get me out.”

“H OW LONG WILL he have to stay in?” Bev poured the chilled Pouilly Fumé into glasses.
“Three months.” Johnno watched her, pleased that the old Bev wasn’t buried too deeply in the newer, sleeker model. “I’m not sure how Pete pulled it off, nor do I think I want to know, but if Stevie spends his time in the Whitehurst Clinic, he won’t stand trial.”
“I’m glad. He needs help, not a jail sentence.” She settled on the sofa beside him, feeling foolishly nervous. “The news is all over the radio. I was just wondering what to do, what I could do, when you knocked at the door. Perhaps, in a few weeks, I could go to see him.”
“I’m not sure he’ll be such a pretty sight.”
“He’ll need his friends,” she said, and set her wine down untasted.
“And are you still?”
She looked up. Her face softened before she lifted a hand to his cheek. “You look good, Johnno. I always wondered what you were hiding under that beard.”
“The sixties are over. More’s the pity. I actually wore a tie last week.”
“Please.”
“Well, it was white leather, but a tie nonetheless.” He leaned over and kissed her. Time, he thought, was only time after all. “I’ve missed you, Bev.”
“The years went by so quickly.”
“For some of us. I hear you and P.M. are an item.”
She picked up her wine, sipping, stalling. “Did you come to gossip, Johnno?”

“You know how I adore gossip, luv. Shall I pretend I didn’t see the pictures of you and P.M.?” The familiar sarcasm was back, faint, but sharp as a blade. “Of course my favorite is of you and Jane, right after you bloodied her lip.” He grabbed Bev’s hand before she could rise, and kissed it. “My hero.”
The laughter bubbled up, and though she took her hand away, she relaxed again. “I had no intention of fighting with her, and no regret that I did.”
“That’s the spirit. You Amazon.”
“She made a comment about Darren,” Bev murmured.
“I’m sorry.” His smile faded. When he took her hand again, she let hers lie comfortably in it.
“I just saw red. I know that’s a cliché, but you do when you’re viciously angry. The next thing I knew I was plowing into her, for Darren, for myself. And for Emma. A lot of nerve I have defending Emma after what I did to her.”
“Bev.”
“No, we won’t get into all that,” she interrupted. “It’s done now. I imagine Jane will say some filthy things about me in her next book, and my business will boom as a result.” Push it aside, she told herself, and go on. “P.M. tells me that you’re about to form your own label.”
“It should be official in a couple of weeks. Just where is our boy?”
“He had to fly