Just a couple things:
The conversation between Peter and Mike has a little reference to the story, but it was mostly my trying to get a bit deeper under the characters' skins. I actually wrote half of this chapter befor I wrote chapter one. I hope it makes sense and is worth reading.
My knowledge of American police ranks is very limited. If there are any problems, please tell me.
Two weeks later…
"That was wonderful," said Mike said dreamily as he left the dinner table and settled on the fainting couch, his beloved twelve-string in his arms.
"I'd almost forgotten what it was like to really be full," Peter observed, his face cracking into a dimpled smile of satisfaction. "It's kinda nice to feel a little too full after a meal for once."
"For you, babe!" An agonised groan echoed from behind the bathroom door. "Remember some of us are dying here!"
"Peter was talking about eating just a little too much, Mick," Mike called, not looking up. "Nothing like the amount you ate."
"Oh just go-" the rest of Micky's sentence was cut off by a rather horrifying retching noise, which could be heard, in somewhat muffled glory, through the wall.
"Yeah, Mike!" Davy said, grinning as he hopped down the tornado staircase, adjusting the cuff of the shirt into which he had just changed. "I mean, eleven helpings of lasagna isn't all that much!"
"I heard that, shorty!" Micky muttered as he staggered uncertainly from the bathroom, clutching his tortured middle. "And for the record, you're wearing my shirt!"
"Well that shouldn't matter too much, considering you're wearing one of Peter's!"
"What about me?" Peter, lost in a book, looked up, his name having registered in his brain. Then, seeing Davy had changed, asked absently, "Date tonight?"
"As a matter of fact, yes-"
"Not so fast," Mike cut in, sharply. "You're on dishes tonight, remember?"
"Oh, shoot. Knew I'd forgotten something!" The English boy snapped his fingers to punctuate his statement. "Guess I'll just have to do them when I get home..."
"No deal, Casanova. Knowing your dates that could be anywhere from late tonight to the middle of next July! And by then those dishes will be disgusting."
"But-"
"But since this is the first time you or any of us have has pocket money in over a month, I'll spell you tonight." Mike finished with a grin. Davy looked like he could have kissed his Texan friend, and he said as much.
"Save that for your girlfriend, buddy," was all Mike gave as a reply as he watched his younger friend speed from the room.
Peter offered to help Mike with the dishes, while Micky went upstairs to sleep off the damage he had done his digestive system at dinner.
"It sure was nice of you to do that for Davy, Mike," Peter said as he dried a large, freshly-cleaned pot.
"Oh, well, you know," the taller boy replied, rather embarrassed at the praise. "The kid hasn't had any money in a while, and he's wanted to take what's-her-name-"
"-Jennifer." Mike let the plate he was washing slip from his wet hand and land with a splash, looking at his sandy-haired friend with a mixture of amusement and astonishment.
"And just how do you know that, shotgun?"
"Davy talks in his sleep," came the sage reply. "You were saying?"
"Oh, yeah," continued Mike, thoughtfully. "Anyway, he's wanted to take this chick out for a while. So I just decided to let him have a little fun, you know, in light of the fact we just got paid for that godsend-of-a-gig." Peter nodded slowly, and Mike went on, musingly,
"I wonder what makes Davy so girl-crazy. I mean, it's not like he's a womaniser or anything."
"I think I can answer that," Peter replied, softly.
"Well, I was thinking of it being a little more of a rhetorical question, man, but sure, go ahead."
"Well, he reacts the same way to everything. He's - what's the word? - impertious." Mike didn't bother to correct his friend; he knew Peter meant 'impetuous', but he as far too interested in what was being said to correct the other boy. "He sees a pretty girl and he thinks he's in love, without considering that it might only be a passing thing, or that there might be consequences, the same way he challenges guys twice his size when they make him mad. He takes his romance all really light, but I think it's 'cause he doesn't really get it yet. And it's the same with Micky, though quite as much."
"More like food, in Micky's case," Mike observed dryly. "Like today."
"I dunno," said Peter. "You weren't around for the incident with Brenda."
"Well, no," Mike admitted.
"Both Micky and Davy are heart-before-head kinda guys."
"Oh, yeah? And what am I?" Mike asked, laughingly curious.
"You're expecting me to say your head comes first, but I'm not gonna," said, Peter not looking up from the cutlery he was carefully drying. "Though you have more common sense than the rest of us."
Mike just looked at him in amazement for a moment, then asked quietly,
"And how do you see yourself, shotgun?"
Peter chuckled. "I've never had much head to boast about. So I'm obviously the same as you three."
"I don't believe that, Pete. And you shouldn't either."
The sandy-haired boy looked up questioningly at his dark-haired friend, who continued with a small smile.
"No, shotgun. I think you're one of those few people whose heart and head work in perfect sync. You're not capable of making a decision either would regret."
It was Peter's turn to look bashful.
"You make me sound special."
"Not an accident, buddy."
Peter's blushing face cracked into a brilliant, glowing, dimpled smile of the type only he possessed, and impulsively he threw himself onto his taller friend, hugging him fiercely.
"I love having you for a friend, Michael."
"Thanks, good buddy. The same to you. Though I think another friend of ours may need some help." He added, as a loud groan was heard from upstairs.
"I'll go," said Peter, dashing up the stairs. He returned a few moments later and headed for the cupboard where the boys kept there few cleaning supplies.
"Mick puke again?"
Peter nodded. "I don't think it had to do with how much he ate, though. I think he might be reacting to something in the food."
"Ouch," Mike replied, with a sympathetic wince. "Does he need anything, medicine-wise?"
"If he does there's nothing we can do about it 'til tomorrow, unless we can get hold of Davy and ask him to pick something up before the pharmacy shuts at nine."
"There's a thought. We could try Jennifer's house. They might not have left there yet. Do you know her last name?"
"No, but I know where Davy keeps his book of phone numbers."
"Okay, see if you can get in touch with him. I only have to wash the cutting board, and it can wait 'til after I've cleaned up Micky's mess." Wiping his soapy hands on his apron, he removed it, and grabbing the necessary cleaning implements from the cupboard, went upstairs to the bedroom he and Micky shared.
The door to Jennifer's house, 1145 Aspenview Crescent, swung open moments after the doorbell rang. Davy stood there, picking minute specks of dust off the sleeves of the shirt he wore, but when his date answered the door he stopped, and looked up at her with a grin.
"Hello, luv!" He said cheerfully, with a ridiculous little bow. Jennifer giggled.
"Hi," she said, stepping aside to let him in. "Listen, Davy, I'd like to change before we go out. I was helping Mr. Perkins next for with some work just before you came."
"Sure thing, Jenny."
"You can sit in the living room and watch TV. I'll be twenty minutes max, promise."
Davy nodded and, after depositing a little pecking kiss on her cheek, made his way into the living room while his girlfriend went upstairs. He settled on the four-seat sofa, and picked up the remote lying on the coffee table. When he turned the power on, the station was set to the news, and a suave looking man with slicked black hair was announcing in a studied tone of voice.
"…reports of gang-like operations in the waterfront area …"
Just then, the princess phone on the mantelpiece let out a loud ring, and Jenny called down the stairs to Davy, asking him to take the call. He obliged- a good thing, as the caller turned out to be none other than Peter.
"Hello, Davy?"
"Peter! What's up? Is everything okay?"
"Just fine, but we think Micky's reacting to something in the food. Do you think you could drop by the drug store and pick up something for his stomach?"
"Sure, man. I'm guessing Micky threw up again?"
"You got it, but I gotta go, Davy. Someone's at the door. Bye!"
"Buh-bye."
Davy hung up. Turning back to the TV, he reached for the remote, but was stopped by Jenny's voice behind him.
"I'm ready, sweetie."
"Okay, then, let's be on our way." Davy replied, cheerfully, offering her his arm. "Say, Jenny-love, would you mind me running a quick errand on our way to the cinema? One of me mates called, and he said me other mate is getting sick, and needs something from the drug store. That okay?"
"Sure, Davy. I'll wait for you in the car." Jenny said, kindly, giving him a little kiss. "You're such a generous boy - so good to your friends."
"Not really," Davy replied, thinking of the dishes he had abandoned back at the Pad. "Nothing they wouldn't do for me at any rate."
"You guys are really lucky. A lot of people never have even one friendship like that. You each have three."
"I guess I am lucky, babe. But you know why I'm even luckier today?" By this time the couple had reached the car, and Davy gallantly leapt forward to open the door for the girl. Taking his meaning, she giggled and climbed in.
*Bang-bang*
"...Someone's at the door. Bye!"
"Buh-bye"
Peter hung up the phone, and stood up. He was halfway to the door when Mike appeared on the landing outside the room he and Micky shared.
"You got that, Peter?" He asked, quickly descending the stairs. "Did you manage to getta hold of Davy?"
"Yeah," replied Peter. "But, Mike, who could be at the door? I just talked to Davy, and anyway he wouldn't knock, and if he did it wouldn't be that hard. And Mr. Babbitt's in New York, visiting family, so it couldn't be him!"
A second series of knocks, louder and more vicious and accompanied by a gruff shout, came from the other side of the door. Mike was surprised to see the nervousness in his friend's face.
"Peter...?"
"Oh, Michael...you don't think..."
Mike suddenly realised what his friend was thinking, and then recoiled in horror as he understood the logic behind it. In the back of his mind he recalled Pierce the Gangster's threat of two weeks before. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he said in his best attempt at a calm, even tone.
"Peter, go upstairs and get Micky down here. Fast. They don't know about him, I hope, so there's a chance we can get him out. Then run." Peter opened his mouth to say something, but Mike stopped him. "I'll be right there with you. No way I'm hanging round. But hurry, they're gonna break down the door any minute. I'll try and reinforce it."
Peter nodded, and while he dashed upstairs to Micky and Mike's room, Mike seized everything he could and shoved it against the door. For once he was grateful for the amount of junk he and his friends had collected and littered around the place. Up against the door went the fainting couch, the chairs, the dining room table, Mr. Schneider - Mike even risked the destruction of his amplifier by adding it to the makeshift barricade. When he felt he had constructed something sturdy enough to hold the men outside for long enough to allow them to escape, he backed away, joining Peter, who was supporting a rather green-looking Micky, at the foot of the stairs.
"Let's go, fellahs," he said grimly.
"Wait, Mike." Micky's enunciation was slightly slurred. "What's going on? Who are these guys?"
"Remember the gang whose plans Peter and I messed up by overhearing them at the gig a couple weeks back? " Mike asked, and Micky groaned.
"Same guys?"
Mike nodded. "That's what we think."
Another loud bang was heard coming from the other side of the door, and Peter cringed.
"C'mon guys, let's go!"
With that, the three turned and fled out the back door and down to the beach.
Davy decided that the date, overall, had been a success. Jenny had enjoyed the movie - and, he thought, his company- very much. She had laughed at all his jokes, listened happily to all his stories, and had even told a good few of her own. Then it had ended on her doorstep with a kiss – the only way to end a wonderful date.
He sighed in contentment and leaned back in the driver's seat, subconsciously noting that he was fast coming to the last corner of his journey – the left hand turn onto North Beechwood. His watch read 10:30; the other guys should still be up. He grinned when he thought of them, and what he would tell them, and how nice it would be to get home.
He was completely unprepared for the shock he received when he turned the corner.
The street was flooded with the flashing blue, white, and red light of police cars. The air was filled with a babble of noise – policemen talking and calling to one another, and a few shocked noises from the neighboUrhood people who had come out to see what the hullabaloo was about. A kind of indescribable nervousness and horror welled up in Davy.
Surely not, he though, desperately.
Parking the car, he leapt out, making for the centre of the commotion. He was soon pulled up short, however, by a large hand on his chest. He looked up into the weathered face of a middle aged police officer.
"And just Where are you going, son?"
"That's-That's," Davy, in his unease, found himself having trouble forming his words. "I live here! My name is David Jones, I live here with my three friends. We're a band – the Monkees-"
The officer nodded, raising a hand to stem the flow of speech from the young man's mouth, and then beckoned for him to follow as he wended his way through the police cars and officers scattered around the site. In a minute or so Davy found himself face to face with a plain clothes officer, about thirty, with a clam expression only slightly disturbed by the lines of stress and worry that were traced across his brow. The officer who had led the young Englishman to him introduced the boy, and gave the man his story.
"What address do you live at, Mr. Jones?"
"1334," Davy replied, quickly. "Please, can you tell me what happened? My friends – their names are Mike Nesmith, Micky Dolenz, and Peter Tork- are they around here somewhere?"
"You say you live at 1334?" The plain clothes officer said, interrupting. Davy nodded, and the man gave a deep sigh the emotions behind which could not be interpreted. Then he continued, more slowly. "My name is Detective Oliver Carstairs. You had better come back to the station with me, Mr Jones. There's a lot you need to know."