Page 128 of The Wrong Side of the Law

“Well, I’m here to talk to Robert.” Frank’s voice sounds amused. “And oddly enough, that’s actually what I wanted to talk to him about.”

“I’ll walk with you,” she says, and the camera view jostles as she latches on to my brother’s arm. “I was on my way to see him too.”

Cindy gushes on and on about all the latest gossip while they walk, and by the time they reach Ferry’s dressing room I know far more than I ever wanted to about the seamy underbelly of a concert tour. She’s pressed up so hard against him that the camera constantly rolls and shakes and bounces.

“Ugh.” I have to look away from the screen. “Brian, let me know when they get somewhere. I’m going to get seasick from watching that.”

Unfortunately, I can’t tune out the gossip. I don’t care that one of the roadies has a thing going with a backup singer, nor do I have even the slightest bit of interest in-

“Hey, we’re here,” Brian says.

On the screen, Frank’s fist reaches up and bangs on a closed door.

“Marty, you piece of shit!” The yelling is distant, muffled. Is it from the other side of the door? “I told you, Marty, I don’t wanna be fuckin’ bothered right-”

The door flies open, revealing Robert Ferry’s craggy face.

“You’re not Marty,” he says, stating the obvious. The world-famous rock star’s face flashes quickly from anger to surprised confusion, then moves through suspicious before finally settling on smug. “Well, c’mon in then, Francis. You too, Cindy: I got something for you.”

Frank walks around inside the dressing room, turning frequently to give us a good view of the inside, before finally sitting down. The place is a shambles of equipment cases and half-crushed beer cans.

“Now, Cindy,” Ferry says, rummaging in a box. “This just showed up today. You do such good work with the makeup for my girls on stage, and I wanted to make sure you had a good supply for yourself. Ah! There we are.” He straightens, holding a wide, flat box.

“For me?” Cindy’s excited squeal comes through the microphone all screechy and distorted, and it doesn’t get any better after she opens the case to find a huge assortment of lipstick, eye shadow, brushes, powders, and just about every different color and type of makeup imaginable.

“Is that good stuff?” Brian asks me.

“I can’t see the labels,” I answer, “but a box that size? Even if it was filled with crap, that much stuff would be expensive. Like, as much as I’d spend on makeup in ten years. Atleastten years.”

“Now scoot, honey.” Ferry shoos the young woman out of his dressing room, ignoring Frank until she’s gone and the door is fully closed behind her. “Francis, Francis,Francis!”

“In the flesh,” Frank answers. “Didn’t expect to see me, did you?”

“Not even a little bit, no,” Ferry boosts himself up to sit on a tall wooden shipping crate and pops open a beer. “I’d offer you one, but you’re not twenty-one and of course I’d never want to get someone in trouble for underage drinking. And what the hell are you doing up here in… where are we again, anyway? South Carolina, I think?”

“Yeah, that’d be bad, wouldn’t it?” My brother laughs, and again there’s a hard edge to the sound. “And yes: Charleston, South Carolina. I’m starting college this fall, and the last part of my acceptance was an in-person interview with a graduate. So, I came up for the weekend and got that out of the way, and thought I’d stop in and see you, too.”

“Good of you to drop by. Even if my lawyers would shit themselves over me talking to you.” Ferry holds up the beer in a mock salute. “What school you going to?”

“The Armory,” Frank answers. “The South Carolina Military Academy, right here in Charleston. If there’s anything that I’ve learned so far this year, it’s that I need to get more structure in my life.”

“Man, Francis, I’d never have pegged you for the sort that wanted to be told what to do, when to get up, what to wear… that shit sounds worse than prison.”

“Well, the curfew is slightly better than prison,” Frank chuckles. “And I’ll be done with it in four years, instead of the fifteen that you had planned out for me in prison.”

Ferry just grins broadly and with a shrug.

“Why’d you do it, Robert? I just don’t get it.”

“Why all the curiosity? You wearing a wire or something?” The rock star seems more amused than suspicious.

“Yeah, Robert,” Frank answers, dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah. I’m wearing a fucking wire. Of course I am. Look, I just want to knowwhy.”

“Clever little bastard, isn’t he?” Beside me, Brian chuckles.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“South Carolina is a one-party consent state. It’s legal to record a conversation here so long as one party gives permission. Florida, though? Both parties have to consent to the recording. Now that Frank told Ferry that he’s wearing a wire, whatever he says is admissible in court.”

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