Although what you are about to see is a work of fiction,

it should nevertheless be played

at maximum volume.

--Velvet Goldmine--

". . . infamous seventies glam-rocker, Curt Wild, was found dead in his house in West Berlin, apparently from a drug overdose. His housekeeper discovered his body early yesterday morning amid the burned remains of most of his belongings. More of his charred possessions were found later in the front yard by the police, apparently thrown off of the balcony by the musician himself. We go now to Nancy Trent, with an interview . . ."

"Oh shit," Shannon whispered, staring at the television in horror. She grabbed the arm of a passing girl with costumes slung over her arms. "Has Tommy seen this yet?"

The girl blinked. "What?"

"The news, you idiot girl!" She shoved the girl out of her way and hurried to Tommy Stone's dressing room.

She took a deep breath to steady her nerves—she was going to need whatever she could get—then she cautiously tapped on the door. "Tommy?"

There was no response, but from the other side of the door she heard the distinct sound of glass crashing. She cracked the door open and peaked in.

Tommy Stone stood in the center of the room with his back to her. On the floor by the wall lay a shattered martini glass. There was no need to ask what was wrong; the television beside his dressing table was on mute, but there on the screen was Curt Wild, long hair flying, head thrown back, silently screaming lyrics to a silent electric guitar.

"You saw," Shannon said inanely.

"Of course I fucking saw," Tommy snarled. He raked a hand through his blonde hair. "Shut the door."

She turned to obey, but a hand on the other side of the door stopped her. She glared at the man standing there. "Mr. Stone is not taking—"

The man smiled courteously. "My name is Gerald Perkins. I am—I was—Mr. Wild's attorney."

Tommy turned to look at the man. He looked expensive; fitted dark grey suit, black tie, clean cut, with neat little gold-rimmed spectacles. A briefcase. Definitely a lawyer.

He squeezed the bridge of his nose, sensing a massive God-smite-me headache in the works. "Leave us alone, Shannon."

"But—"

"Get out, Shannon!"

"Yes sir," she said angrily. She glared at Perkins and made sure to slam the door just a little on her way out.

"I'm sorry. I would say she isn't usually like that, but it would be a lie," Tommy said.

Perkins gave him a thin, humorless smile and without being invited, took a seat in a plush chair on the wall opposite the dressing table. He set his briefcase on his lap and opened it with little snapping sounds, then looked up at Tommy Stone with dark lifted brows.

"I expect you know why I'm here?" He said.

Tommy met the man's clever, piercing eyes calmly. He moved the dressing table chair to face the lawyer and sat in it. "That really depends on what you know."

Perkins smirked and removed an envelope from his case. "I know enough, Mr. Stone," he said, and handed over the envelope.

Tommy took it cautiously, as though it might bite him. It was good paper; expensive vellum stationary with a name engraved across it in gold; a name that he had thrown away . . . ages ago it seemed. A name that he had hoped never to hear or see linked to him again; Brian Slade.

He glanced from the paper to the lawyer. Perkins nodded and sat back with a shrug. "I have been charged with handling Mr. Wild's estate. I have no knowledge of what that envelope contains, except that he mentioned it specifically in his will. I was to deliver it personally to a Mr. Thomas Stone. I believe that would be you."

"Yes," Tommy said faintly, staring at the envelope apprehensively. "I suppose it is."

He took a letter opener from his dressing table and slit the seal with a quick flick. There were three pieces of paper inside, covered bottom to top in the sharp, jagged scrawl that was Curt Wild.

Tommy began to read:

Brian, Brian, Brian . . . it's been a long time . . .