A/N: My first fanfiction for "The Monkees". I hope it turns out alright! I love all the Monkees equally when it comes to writing them. They are such wonderful boys! I'll update this as frequently as possible.
One more thing - yes, I have been reading and/or following some stories in this fandom under a different pen name. I'm normally really busy, and don't have time to review steadily. I'll try to drop a few here and there, but in case I can't, I would like to to extend many kudos and thanks to the following authors:
saiken2009, PlushChrome, Crystal Rose of Pollux, ChaosKirin, MonkeeMidgie
For the long hours of reading enjoyment I have been so ungrateful for.
That small yet popular Malibu teenage haunt, Bernie's Burger Bin, was thronging with the usual Friday-night collection of young people. Some sat around in the brightly coloured booths chatting and enjoying the hamburgers that had first made the restaurant famous. Others were rocking it up on the dance floor, wildly improvising steps to the beat of music played by a band well-known to the regular patrons, a group of four boys known as The Monkees.
The curly-haired drummer was singing lead to the current song – a song in a minor key with a fairly heavy beat, about a boy refusing to be used as a metaphorical doormat by his popularity- seeking girlfriend. In front of him, below the raised platform, a short boy danced and banged a tambourine against his hip while singing backup. Occasionally he would make eye contact with one of the girls in audience or wink at another, usually followed by a coy grin or a small giggle by the girl in question. On either side of this boy stood the two guitarists. One, a long-legged, skinny fellow in a green wool cap, held a white twelve-string which he played with a determined concentration. The other, a sandy-haired boy, played bass while beaming out at the audience with a glowing, dimpled grin.
Soon the song finished, and, accompanied by applause, the four musicians proceeded backstage. Once they were safely in their dressing room and away from the audience, all four gave a sigh of relief.
"That went well," Mike, the one with the wool hat, commented happily as he placed his guitar gently in its case. "Good job, guys."
"I think that was the most applause we've got in a while," Peter remarked with another dimpled smile. "Say, Mike, when do we get paid?"
"Two weeks," came the reply.
"Well that's not so far off," Davy, the short member noted in an accent layered with the tones of Manchester. "Then I'll be able to date again!"
His fellow band mates laughed and shook their heads. Davy was, in a word, completely girl-crazy, and he made no effort to hide it.
"I dunno about dates, but I'm gonna buy me the biggest meal in the history of eating," the drummer, Micky, grinned.
"I think all of us are gonna be a part of that, buddy," Mike chuckled. "It's been at least a month since our last square meal." This was the truth. The boys were always in a state of monetary disarray, and their small icebox was nearly always empty.
"Speaking of food," Davy said. "One of the waitresses out there is absolutely lovely. I think I'll go introduce myself."
"I'm coming too," Micky announced. Davy raised his eyebrows in surprise, and the curly-haired boy went on. "I need a burger, and you need a chaperone."
Davy gave him a scathing ha-ha-very-funny look, but did not object to his company. Together they left, leaving Mike and Peter in the dressing room packing up the instruments.
The two younger members of the band had only been gone a couple of minutes when Peter heard men's voices coming through the wall. He was packing up Davy's tambourine and maracas as a favour to his friend, crouching near the wall as he did so. As a result he heard almost every word of the conversation next door.
He didn't mean to eavesdrop; it was an accident.
But that accident was about to have a huge impact on their lives.
At first he didn't really realise what was being said. It sounded like a load of silly nonsense to him, and he told the same to Mike.
"Oh," said Mike absently from the other side of the room, where he was putting away Micky's drums (which he had just brought in from the stage). "And what are they saying, shotgun?"
"Silly stuff," replied Peter, causally. "About an old lady, and a big boss, and some sugar candy, and a treasure map, and tomorrow night, and-"
Something suddenly occurred to Mike, and caused him to stiffen. He hoped his sudden suspicions were proved completely false, but he had read too many adventure novels in his life time to prevent them from cropping up at all. And Mike's suspicions, once existent, would never go away until proved right or wrong.
Peter noticed his sudden change of attitude, and asked, concerned, "Michael, what is it?"
"Did you say the next room, Peter?"
"Yeah. So?"
"This is the only real room back here. Right next door is a janitor's closet."
"Oh," murmured Peter in hushed tones.
"I may be very wrong with this, but I'm pretty sure when two or more men meet in a janitor's closet and talk about things like times and days and sugar candy and old ladies and big bosses, it ain't for anything that could possibly be legal."
"Like what not legal, Mike?"
"You got me there, shotgun. I'm thinking maybe a gang jewel heist or something."
"A jewel heist!" No sooner had the words left Peter's mouth when he clamped his hands over it in horror. He had said the last far louder than intended. Apparently the sudden change in volume had not gone unnoticed, because the voices in the next room suddenly gave way to tense silence.
"Sorry," Peter whispered, looking at his shoes. Mike sighed and shook his head.
"Nothing we can fix now, shotgun."
Suddenly the door burst open, and the two Monkees found themselves looking into the business end of a small revolver and, right above it, the faces of two very angry men.
"Right, you kids," the man with the gun snarled, motioning slightly with the firearm as he spoke. "Hands up!" then turning to the man behind him, he growled, "What should we do with 'em Pierce? Shoot 'em?"
"Nah," Pierce replied in nasally voice. "The boss said to lie low. Let's just take 'em with us!"
"You could just leave us here," Mike offered, hopefully. "We won't tell, promise!"
"Yeah," said Peter, supportively. "Cross our hearts, hope to die-" Mike winced, and the two gangsters chuckled cruelly.
"You sure you hope that, kid?" Pierce snorted. Peter looked up, his lower lip stuck out stubbornly.
"Only if we break the promise," he said, crossing his arms with an air of finality.
"Oh shuddup," Pierce snarled. "While Jocko here and I decide what to do with you."
Apparently their captors were not the sharpest tools in the box, and Mike thanked heaven for small favours.
While all this was going on backstage, the two other members of the band were out enjoying themselves in the restaurant, oblivious to their band mates' plight. They sat on either side of a booth, Davy casually flirting with the pretty waitress (whose name was Jennifer), and Micky casually flirting with the hamburger she had just brought him. When she left to return to her job, the two boys made silly conversation until she returned, a little later, with the bill. Upon seeing it, Micky's eyes grew wide as he fished in his pocket.
"Shoot,' he muttered. "Forgot my wallet. Have you got any cash on you, Davy?"
"I'm afraid not," Davy replied, rolling his eyes. "For pity's sake, Micky, why didn't you think of that before?"
"Dunno," said Micky, slowly. "Guess I was just really hungry."
"You look it," Jennifer said, pityingly, and Micky, not sure if that was sympathy or condescension, merely nodded in reply. "Listen, I'll get my boss. You can work something out with him."
She left, and returned shortly with a small, balding man, slightly over fifty, who identified himself as Bernie Jacobs, the owner and manager. He looked a little worried, but as soon as he saw who it was that was unable to pay, his face cracked into a cheerful grin.
"Oh, it's just you guys," he said, in loud, friendly tones. "The Monkees. Listen, you cats played so well and since I won't be able to pay you for two weeks, I guess you can have that burger for free."
"Gosharoony, thanks, Mr Jacobs!" Micky exclaimed, gratefully.
"Please, call me Bernie!" the friendly manager replied with a smile. "Say, where are those other two guys? I'd like to thank them too!"
"Oh, they're still backstage," Davy replied.
"Well let's go see them, then!" Bernie exclaimed, cheerily, and the three got up and made their way back to the dressing room, with the restaurant owner making loud conversation the whole way.
Back in the dressing room, Pierce and Jocko were still trying to decide what to do with their two prisoners, when the managers loud voice suddenly echoed from a little ways down the hall. Jocko looked in sudden terror at Pierce.
"Whadda we do?"
"No time to think about that," Pierce growled. "Scram!"
Jocko scrammed.
But before Pierce left, he turned to the two boys.
"The Big Boss is gonna hear about this. And when he finds you, you kids are gonna wish we'd just killed you here."
With that, he left the room.
As soon as the gangsters had left, Mike and Peter bolted for the door. They met Bernie, Micky, and Davy in the hall, and while Peter told the story in one extremely long, fast sentence, Mike called the police.
The police said that they recognised Pierce and Jocko from their description as two small time members of a large gang, and that the two were wanted on charges of petty theft. They also told Mike to be very careful until they told him it was okay not to be.
The next day, they called to say that the two men had been arrested down on the waterfront early that morning. Nothing happened for two weeks, and the Monkees began to forget the incident – first Davy and Micky, then Peter, and then even Mike began to put it from his mind.
Until exactly two weeks later, when it returned to haunt them with a vengeance.