Page 48 of Dead Rockstar

“Okay,” I said.

“I parked the truck right around the corner.” I followed him to the parking lot, got in, and buckled up without a word. I wasn't sure why my heart was pounding so hard. He was obviously okay. He had gotten the money. He had achieved one of his goals, and now we could move onto the second without the specter of his poverty hanging over him.

“How much money is that?” I asked. “If you don't mind telling me.”

“I don't even know exactly. I don't remember. I was high as hell when I buried it, and I collected it over the course of several months. But it's at least thirty grand, maybe closer to fifty.”

“Wow,” I breathed. I had never been in possession of even a quarter of that much money all at once. “And that's just from a few months?”

“It was during our heyday, when I was still young and hot enough to make a few coins.” He laughed. “That's a lot to me now, but I have to say, it wasn't back then. It's a drop in the bucket compared to what I used to be worth.” He shook his head. “All in other hands now, though. That's what happens when you die.”

“I just can't imagine,” I said in awe, staring down at the bag. “The life you lived...”

“It wasn't all that great, Stormy,” he said quietly. “Even with the money. It was a lot more hassle than it ever was good, I can tell you that.” I noticed his hands on the wheel shook a little; something had upset him.

“Still, you have to feel...nostalgic, if nothing else, being here,” I said. “It must have been hard, seeing your old house. I imagine you must miss this place, and the people you loved.”

“Yes,” he said, growing even more quiet. “Yes, I do.” Then he was silent.

He didn't say much else until we were at the motel. He seemed to be lost in thought. We pulled round to the room, parked, and Phillip followed me inside, the cash tucked under his arm like a bag of groceries. He pushed it under the double bed and sat down on it, wiping his brow.

I sat beside him silently, giving him a minute. He seemed really rattled; all his triumphant excitement from before had disappeared. But he still didn't speak, only stared at the wall, silently brooding, his hands working over themselves in his lap. He hadn't taken the bait before in the truck, so I decided to just be direct.

I put a hand on his leg. “Let me guess,” I began. “You saw someone from your family and that's why you're so shaken.”

He shook his head and put his large hand over mine. “No, but it's a good guess. I didn't see anybody in my family, but I did see someone I knew.” He swallowed. “I saw Jason.”

“What?” I gasped. “Jason Langley?”

“The one and only.”

I gaped at him, and he sighed.

“My family...they all moved out of the house. They're long gone. I guess after I died ownership passed to Barb, and she in turn gifted it to my youngest brother – you know I owned that house, I had bought it from my parents when I first came into money – and he didn't want it, so he sold it to Jason. And he's lived there all these years.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked. “And how did you happen to see him?”

“I did more than see him,” Phillip said. “And I know all of that because...well, he told me.”

“What?” I looked at him in surprise. “I thought you were going to lay low!”

“I did, I swear. I cased the place from the truck, I was inconspicuous, I took my time. Didn't seem like anybody was home. I'm a fuckin' idiot. He was in the backyard the whole time, on the back porch – I didn't see him because he was slumped over in the chair, half dead. I come walking around back with my shovel and bag, and I didn't even see him. Just started digging. No idea the man was there until he said, ‘Phillip.’ And I stopped digging and my blood just ran cold and I almost passed the fuck out. I knew his voice without having to turn around.”

“Oh shit,” I said. “What did you do?”

“What could I do? I went up to the porch and sat down. Asked him how he was.” He shook his head. “He wasn't good, Stormy. He's so strung out –he smelled like shit and I'd be shocked if he weighed a hundred and thirty pounds. He looks like he's a hundred years old. But he knew me. And he was glad to see me.” He shook his head. “Weirdest part is that he didn't seem surprised at all.”

“He didn't freak out when you told him?”

“Nope, I was the one who was freaked,” he said, running a hand nervously through his snarled hair. “I started gibbering like a parrot, I told him that I'd faked my death all those years ago to get away from the fame and drugs and that I'd been living down south all this time, but I'd hit a run of bad luck and needed my money. I thought I was doing pretty good, too, but he just fixed one glazed eye on me and laughed. I said what was so fuckin' funny and he was like, 'I know I'm strung the fuck out and it's been twenty goddamn years, but don't think for a second that I forgot Guthrie or that damn spell in the liner notes.’”

I didn't know how to respond.

“And I just kinda went white and was like, 'Don't be stupid, man, magic and spells aren't real.' And he says, 'I knew this was going to happen long before you ever stepped foot out of the grave.’ He says, ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’”

“What did he mean by that?”

“No fucking idea. I couldn't tell if he was just that high, or if he was serious. I was so freaked I didn't ask him to explain.” He put his head in his hands. I squeezed his leg, and rested my head on his shoulder, trying to comfort him. His body was tense. “I tried to convince him that he was just hallucinating, how dumb is that? That it was all some drug induced mania. But he saw me, and he'll remember.”

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