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Chapter Twenty-Six
They planned to pull out of Amsterdam before noon the following day, after Remy helped Vivi pack the dozens upon dozens of cookies in bags individually labeled with the upcoming cities. One of the tour assistants, she said, would freeze them all to keep them fresh then unfreeze them bag by bag as they arrived at each tour stop. Next was Riga, in Latvia, followed by Helsinki and a handful of other comparatively smaller countries and arenas, all of which they’d be driving to. After that, Tokyo, Shanghai, and the final show in Sydney.
“Where’s Parish?” Remy asked as he boarded the bus with the other musicians.
“Walter pulled him out of the hotel lobby this morning,” David said, looking wary.
“Walter? Like, Walter himself? Not his assistant?” Remy asked.
David was mid-nod when the question was better answered by Parish himself. He shoved onto the bus with the threatening weight of a thunderhead. His features were lines—eyes, mouth, brows, even his flared nostrils and locked hands.
“Dude,” David said.
“Some motherfucker told Walter about us going out last night, and even though doinglegalmotherfucking drugs isn’t mentioned anywhere in the contract, apparently I’ve violated some clause and reflected poorly on the princess of pop and am fucking fired,” Parish said, voice hissing, fingers shaking. He stomped past them and wrecked his bunk, grabbing bags and papers and a handful of clothes he’d apparently made up in the blankets.
“Wait, are you serious? You’re fired?” David said.
“Why the fuck would I joke about that?” Parish asked without looking at him.
“What about Laurel? Did she get caught too?” Remy asked. “What about me and Michael?” How would he explain this to Vivi? Did she even know Parish was fired, or was this beneath her pay grade? And it wasn’t as if Vivi could save his, Remy’s, job, and not Parish’s—it would arouse too much suspicion. But then, Remy hadn’t really done anything wrong—
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Maybe,” Parish said. “I’m guessing one of the Vivi superfan freaks got a photo or something. They wouldn’t even tell me who turned me in—they said they weren’t required to reveal the source. I can’t believe this shit. This is why I shouldn’t tour with women. The stuff Nick Maddon did on his tour would make Vivi’s little virginal heart break.”
“Can you fight it? Is there anything—” Remy began but stopped when Parish glowered.
“Independent contractors. That’s all we are in the end. Fuck this whole fucking industry, man. I wanted to be a musician, not a prop,” Parish said. He lifted his hand; David and Michael shook it vigorously, pulling him in for quick bro-hugs. When Parish got to Remy, he gave him a serious, intense look. “Get yourself a contract, man, if you’re going to keep working with her. She did this to mewitha contract, all because some vague ‘morality’ clause means she can. You get everything in writing, or don’t produce another note for her.”
“Right. Yeah, right,” Remy said, nodding, licking his lips nervously. Parish shook his hand then shouldered down the steps and toward a waiting cab.
“That’s bullshit, right there. He parties, but he’s here on time. He does the job. Damn,” David said with a big breath.
“I can’t see how she could justify firing the two of us,” Michael said, glancing Remy’s way. “I had an eye out for photos last night too and didn’t see anyone give us a second look.”
“How’d they get a photo of just Parish and not Laurel, though?” David asked. “It’s gotta be a report, not a photo. Someone turned you guys in—the fucking spy turned you guys in!Who saw you come back into the hotel last night?”
“No one from the tour, I don’t think. Just the staff at the desk,” Remy said. His stomach was beginning to turn faster, faster, a ball rolling down a hill.
“I doubt a guy tripping on mushrooms would be anything worth commenting on to the staff at an Amsterdam hotel,” Michael said. “And the dancers are in the other hotel, so it’s not like anyone in touch with Walter could’ve, like…spied through a peephole or something.”
“Police state. Jesus Christ,” David said. “Think you can do a little digging, Remy, next time you do a producing session? Because I want to know who ratted Parish out, and then I want to make sure every contact I have in the industry hears about what a jackass that person is.”
Michael nodded. “Yeah, do that. And, kid? Parish is right. Get a fucking contract with hernow. And make sure it’s void of a morality clause.”
Remy went to his bunk as soon as the bus started off and texted Celeste so quickly, he dropped his phone twice.
Remy Young: Weird question: are there any photos of Vivi’s band circulating from last night?
Celeste Yi: I can check, why?
Remy Young: Parish got fired last night and trying to figure out how he got caught
Celeste Yi: Nothing that I see but it’s possible Vivi’s people stopped the release. I’d ask her
Celeste Yi: can I write about it
Remy Young: I don’t see why not
Telling Celeste she could write about Parish being fired was a cruel sort of freedom—a door slam, a retaliation, bitterness in action. Because, yes, perhaps Vivi’s people stopped photos. But Remy was nearly certain it had nothing to do with photos, or dancers, or hotel concierges.He’dtold Vivi that Parish was high. He’d mentioned Parish but not Laurel.
