The High Notes: A Novel(36)

“Let me make it clear. You come within a mile of any of my artists, particularly Iris Cooper, Boy Brady, or anyone else, and I’ll see to it that you’re behind bars for the rest of your life. You’ve done enough damage to enough people. No sane human being goes around hiring thugs to rough people up. Don’t you dare come near any of my artists again, or I’ll personally see to it that you’re out of business for good and in prison,” and with that, he hung up.

Iris stayed with Boy that night when he came out of surgery, and Clay stayed with both of them. The police took reports from both victims, and Boy was in a lot of pain from his ribs. Iris was too, although less. They had really gone to town on Boy. And both of the men who’d done it were being held and charged, and one of them would go back to prison.

“That son of a bitch is a sick fuck,” Clay said about Glen Hendrix. It was the first time Iris had ever heard him swear, and he looked murderous. He took care of both of them as though they were his children, which was how he felt about all his artists. And he wanted Hendrix charged for ordering the assault. They could have been killed, given the force the two thugs had used.

They went back to the hotel the next day, and there were two security guards posted outside their rooms.

“I’m so sorry,” Iris said to Boy, as she helped him settle into bed. Clay had hired a nurse for him, and all Iris had to do was rest, so her ribs could heal. What Hendrix had done was insane. She thanked her lucky stars again that she had met Clay and he had saved her from a disastrous fate at the hands of a lunatic.



* * *



—

The day after they got back from the hospital, Clay called and asked if he could come over. Boy’s face was heavily bandaged because of his nose, and Iris had two black eyes from being slapped so hard and the blows to her face. They were sitting in bed side by side, watching TV, and Boy dozed most of the time from the painkillers that the nurse Clay had hired gave him every few hours. Clay’s doctor was checking them daily.

Clay came to visit and smiled when he saw them.

“You two look like prizefighters after a heavyweight bout.”

“That’s what it feels like,” Boy said through his bandages. The doctor had said his nose would look perfect again when it healed, maybe even better than before. They were both wearing pajamas and looked like two kids.

Clay had brought a box with him that he’d left in Iris’s room. When Boy fell asleep, he beckoned her to come with him back to her own room. She tiptoed after him, and she felt better although her ribs hurt when she breathed, and she couldn’t imagine singing for a while. It was going to slow her album down for a week at least. Boy had to cancel several TV appearances. The paparazzi had heard that there had been some kind of incident with injuries and were parked outside, but neither of them were going anywhere, so the press vigil outside the Plaza didn’t do them any good.

When they got to Iris’s room, she sat down on the bed, and Clay put the box next to her. It was a small pink hatbox with roses painted on it.

“You didn’t have to get me a present.” She smiled at him.

“You deserve a lot more than that,” he said, still worried about her. “I hope it fits,” he said to mislead her, with a smile. She took the lid off carefully, ready to find a hat. There was a soft pink cashmere blanket inside and a tiny little face too afraid to move peeked out at her. She thought it was a toy at first. She pushed the blanket back and saw a tiny teacup, white, long-haired Chihuahua, who looked straight into her eyes and licked her finger with a tiny pink tongue. Iris’s eyes filled with tears as she looked from the puppy to Clay. Nobody had ever done anything that nice for her. She didn’t know what to say. Clay leaned over to kiss her on the forehead, and the fluffy white puppy made a snuffling sound. Iris lifted the tiny puppy out of the box, still wrapped in the blanket. She was barely bigger than Iris’s cupped hands which held her. She was wearing a little pink collar with rhinestones on it. She looked even smaller when Iris set her down on the bed.

“What’s her name?” she whispered, smiling like a kid at Christmas, which was what she felt like.

“That’s up to you.”

Iris knew instantly what she wanted to call her. “Rosebud,” like the flowers on the box. “She looks like a tiny little Rosebud. I can call her Rosie for short. I’m going to take her everywhere with me.” She beamed at Clay. “I’ve never had a dog.” She had never had a life before either. Now she was living a dream.

“A whole mountain of stuff goes with her,” Clay said, as he sat down on the bed next to her. “Joanne helped me. She’s got blankets and sweaters and collars, and bowls and food and toys, and a pink bed. You said you wanted a fluffy, white, long-haired Chihuahua. I thought she might cheer you up.”

Iris hadn’t stopped smiling since she’d first seen her. She carried her into the next room to show Boy, but he was heavily drugged on the painkillers the nurse had given him, and sound asleep. It was better for him to just sleep away the pain. She went back to her room, and Clay ordered room service dinner for them. He hated to leave her now. He had been so worried about her when she called him two days before.

The New York police had contacted the Las Vegas police department, and Glen was going to be charged with conspiracy to commit assault and battery and inflict great bodily harm. They said he could spend a year in jail for it, but he probably wouldn’t. They thought he might serve thirty days or a few months at most. But at least he wouldn’t get off scot-free.