Neon Nights Chapter 8

Marc and Carly drove west over the 30 Bridge, the bay below roaring with activity. Watercraft in every conceivable configuration of hull and sail stirred the late afternoon surface into a swirling vortex of jumbled wakes and surface chop from the south-easterly sea breeze. Jet skis raced back and forth, tempting fate with every turn of the throttle,while groups of revelers on pontoon boats and day cruisers anchored next to low-tide sandbars that would only provide a few hours of enjoyment before the incoming tide reclaimed them.

The fairgrounds were off Route 13, a two-lane country road that ran along pastures and forests as far as the eye could see. Patience was a virtue when there was traffic because there were few good places to pass, legally or illegally, andthe road had been responsible for a half dozen deaths over the last five years. The community had invested in giant flashing signs and some impromptu ones from residents bearing catchy slogans like “DON'T BE AN ASS. YOU'LL DIE IF YOU PASS.” They had also taken the roadside memorial to a whole new level, with flashing orange lightsdraped around coffins that put the simple wooden cross to shame.

The road dead-ended into a traffic circle with three options for potential destinations. The first exit led you toDawson Farm, a

legendary holiday attraction that stood the test of time, even in the digital age. It offered hayrides and corn mazesduring the fall, and a Christmas light spectacular that had made national headlines for the last three years. The third exit was for the Flamingo Shores Campground, a wildly popular spot that featured the latest and greatest in sleeping under the stars. It sat nestled right on the edge of the bay and was one of the few places you could drive your boat up to the dock and walk right off it to your campsite.

And right smack in the middle of the action, taking up the largest single tract of land in East Bay, stood the thicktwenty-five-foot-tall wood beams that served as the welcome wagon for the Stevens Family Fairgrounds. What wasonce a working cattle ranch had been redeveloped by its owner, the real estate baron, Rex Stevens, when he saw the opportunity to drive tourism and millions of dollars to his pockets via a world-class venue for concerts, festivals, and carnivals.

In the parking lot, there was a line of people snaking in and out of cars and stretching far enough back that you likelyneeded to pack a lunch to wait in it. Thousands of attendees, clad in neon-colored armor, showed so much skin itlooked like the event was taking place on the beach. People laughed, smoked, and drank to their hearts' content, and no frown could be found on the grounds, save for the staff, who looked miserable. The festival was an oasis for these kids in the cruel, unforgiving world of bad grades, breakups, shitty jobs, and shittier bosses.

"Have you ever been to one of these things?" Marc asked Carly.

"Not my style. I'm more of a denim skirt and cowboy boots kinda girl."

Marc nodded his approval. She curtsied and smiled.

He tipped an imaginary cap in her direction. "Shall we, ma'am?"

The woman at the will-call entrance looked at the two of them with a healthy dose of contempt as they approached the glass. She reminded Marc of a school bus driver who had been on the job too long.

Marc approached with a beaming smile, trying to pull out every ounce of charm he could muster.

"Hi, I'm Detective McKinley, and this is Detective Hill with the East Bay Police Department. We wanted to speak with the event organizer, please."

The woman did not reciprocate the smile, and he felt his charms would be better saved for a rainy day or a less cloudy person.

"You got an appointment?" she hissed.

"No, we don't, but our badge usually keeps us from making one," Marc said, never breaking his smile.

The woman shot Marc an exasperated look and yelled back at her heavily tattooed co-worker, who was angrilyshuffling papers around her desk.

"You know where Alec is?!"

"How the hell should I know?" the wafer-thin woman snapped back.

Marc thought that in such a tight space, there was a real possibility that these two could come to blows before the end of the event. While the first woman outweighed the second by a hundred pounds, the thin girl looked pretty damn scrappy.

A third woman out of eyesight from the others overheard the exchange and yelled,

"South entrance!"

Marc and Carly thanked them and walked out the door without waiting for the "you're welcome" that would likely never come.

"They were nice," Carly said. "Yes, national treasures."

"What do you think of this place?" Carly asked as they drove past tall metal structures and men rolling giant black cases on wheels.

"They definitely didn't have shows like this when I was a kid."

They parked at the south gate and found three men standing beside a towering inflatable archway. Food stalls, carnival games, and even a tractor-trailer that had been converted into a lounge area lined the

walkway to the south stage. There were also countless places where attendees could snap photos against backdropswith corporate logos on them.

They found Alec Davidson standing by a hot dog truck called Dogtown, eating a Chicago-style dog, the neon green relish so bright, it could stand in for some of the lights at the show.

Alec wore a cabana shirt with cartoon palm trees and white boat shoes. He was in his second season of life, though he looked much younger with shoulder-length black hair tied into a ponytail and bright green eyes. His arms and legs had never seen the inside of a gym, and he managed to look simultaneously like the biggest douchebag on the planet and the nicest guy you would ever meet.

"Excuse me? Are you Alec?" Marc asked.

Turning to face the inquiry, he smiled a promoter's smile. "Indeed. How can I help you?"

His voice contained a bizarre mash-up of irritation and congeniality.

He instantly struck Marc as someone who worked hard to keep up the "good time guy" persona.

"I'm Detective McKinley, and this is Detective Hill. Wanted to see if you had a quick moment to chat."

Alec finished his last bite of the dog and threw the cardboard boat into the trash. He wiped the corner of his mouthfree from a dash of yellow mustard that had built a nest there.

"Sure, I've got a minute for you."

Marc noticed that it was a minute. Not "a few minutes" or "sure, I've got some time."

“Thanks. We had a couple of kids come into the ER with reactions to some pill consumed at the show. Have you oryour security team seen anything like that going around the show?"

"Can't say that I have, detectives. But if I'm being honest, in my business, it is impossible to stay on top of what these kids are using to have a good time. I appreciate you guys keeping me in the loop about it.”

Carly jumped in.

“What about your staff? Any reason to think any of them would be involved in selling something like that?”

He seemed to consider it as a possibility but then shrugged it off.

“Always possible, but this is a good group of people we have here. I know it’s kind of a wild place, but everyone heregenerally just wants to feel the music pulse through them. They want to feel alive. Be a part of something bigger than themselves.”

It sounded like an investor pitch. In fact, if Marc had to put money on it, Alec had used it before … many times.

Alec looked at his watch, the universal sign for "I'm done talking to you."

“If you'll excuse me, the gates are already open on the North side. We are trying like hell to get this side open by 8p.m., and the party doesn't stop tonight until whenever it stops. We have a briefing

starting shortly, and I'll let my security teams know that they need to stay extra vigilant if they see this stuff trading hands.”

"We appreciate your cooperation," Marc said. "How long have you been in the concert business?"

"Since I got out of college. I got into deejaying while at my fraternity house and was hooked. Once I graduated, I spent a few years with one of the big festivals learning the ropes and then decided to try my own thing. Neon Junglewas born, and we've had an awesome run for the last fifteen years. If you had asked me at eighteen years old if my lifewould be neon lights and painted people, I would have told you that you were crazy ... and now look at me."

"Understood, and thank you for your time," Marc said.

"You've got it. The last thing I want to see is a kid die out here this weekend."

They climbed into the truck as raindrops began to fall lightly on the windshield, and then without warning, the sky skipped the pleasantries all together and broke loose into a full-fledged afternoon deluge that was over as fast as it began. The crowd standing in line was undeterred, and the rain only seemed to embolden their spirits.

Three women wearing bright yellow Brazilian cut bikinis, their bodies painted with pink, green, and orange stripes, and rain boots that came up to their knees, walked past the truck.

Marc grinned at Carly.

"See, those girls were ready for every weather condition." She rolled her eyes.

"I'm sure that's what they were thinking when they put their outfits together this morning."

Marc had never been to a festival like this before, and his senses were on overdrive, akin to what Clark must have felt every time he went to the dog park. It was easy to be callous and self-important here. To be the all-knowing adult,chastising the youth for their frivolity and stupidity.

There was real-world shit to do.

Why waste your life away dancing and singing? That response required no effort.

What did require effort was to try to understand these people if you didn't know anything about them. If you had neverheard the music or seen the costumes, you had to be incredibly open-minded to see what was really happening here. Marc fancied himself to be such a person, so once the knee-jerk reaction had passed, he found himself with the utmost respect for these people who were unencumbered by society's conventions. No, you couldn't wear a pair ofdaisy dukes with a tail mounted to your ass to most jobs, but this place, this space, allowed every one of these 50,000-plus people to be something else for a few days.

It allowed them to be free, and Marc couldn't come up with anything wrong with that.

The music started, and to the untrained ear, it was a deafening barrage across the landscape, but there was somethingelectric in the melodies, something that made the nerves of even the uninitiated at least intrigued by the rhythms.

Making their way to the Mobile Command Center was no easy task. They clanged into people left and right, and Marc grew more claustrophobic with every step. Everyone else seemed to have no issue navigating the bodies around them. They looked like a school of fish, able to move in close quarters with the thousands of other fish without disruption. Sweat from bare skin glazed past his arms, and his pulse quickened. He looked back at Carly, who had thesame deer-in-the-headlights look and pointed to a break in the swarm not far ahead. Thankfully once they passed the stage, the human traffic jam freed up, and they found a small patch of grass to stand and catch their breath.

"I don't care how far we have to walk back to the truck, but there's no way I'm going through that again," Marc said to her.

The feel of the crowd still clung to his skin like an amputee's phantom limb. Even under a wide-open sky, he felt trapped.

"Agreed. At least we finally reached Oz," she said, pointing to a black and silver trailer so clean it glistened in the sun.

Marc knocked on the door, and a wiry-looking young man who couldn't have been more than a few months past hisfirst legal drink greeted him. His uniform was so big that it looked like he might not

actually be inside of it, just a floating head above the collar with bony arms and fingers more suited to video gamecompetitions than police work.

"Hi, how can I help you?" said the young man whose name tag read Mallet.

"Is Sergeant Russell here?" Marc asked. "He is. Just in the back there, sir."

"Thank you. I've never been inside here. Carly, have you?" "Never. This is incredible."

Her eyes surveyed the trailer walls, which were covered in a dizzying array of electronics. The trailer was atechnological marvel, featuring just about every type of communications platform known to man, and it was also the single most expensive item the department owned. Two other officers were fixed to their computer screens, speakingin a language that Marc only vaguely realized was English.

This was 21st-century police work.

What he did was brontosaurus-level stuff compared to this team. "Mallet, you run all this stuff?" Marc asked him.

"Yes, sir,” the young man said, his bony chest puffed with pride.

Marc nodded, impressed, and he and Carly walked to the back of the trailer where Sergeant Rick Russell sat in hisoffice behind a large black desk, watching a bank of screens against the wall. Russell was a 6'6” brick shit house of a man with a shaved head and mustache who looked more like the leader of a biker gang than a dedicated

officer of the law. His arms were so big that they had to have special shirts tailored for him. This Mobile CommandBus was his baby and affectionately known throughout the department as the "Russ Bus."

Marc threw his hands up.

"Every time I see you, your feet are up, you're drinking coffee, and you look happy. Are you even a cop anymore?"

A bellowing laugh echoed off the walls as he greeted Marc and Carly. He pulled them both into a hug and nearly killed them with his kindness.

"Don't be a hater, as the kids say," Russell said. "Jealousy is the stronger emotion," Marc responded.

"True story," the large man said. He moved to the mini fridge, took out three Red Bulls, and extended one toward each of them.

They accepted the cans, cracked them open, and tapped the aluminum against each other.

"Hey, do you think you can get your kid out there, Mallet, a smaller uniform?" Carly asked with a grin. "Looks like he's wearing one of yours.”

“That's the smartest kid in the department. You wouldn't believe what we have to pay him, but he is worth every penny. He loves doing it too. He's got a good guy superhero thing going. Couldn't ask for a better guy on the team."

Marc pointed at the top right screen.

"Is that the VIP area?" "Sure is. Why?"

"Thinking the pill that put Kerry Baker and a few other kids in the hospital came from some well-to-do kids who might be running their sales out of that area."

Russell's eyebrows arched, the towering bristles indicating an intense interest in the theory.

"We'll watch out for it and let you know if anything happens. My guys will do their best. I guarantee it."

Russell took two gulps, crushed the empty can, and flipped it into the small blue recycling bin.

Carly's jaw dropped.

"Remind me never to bet against you in a drinking contest."

"It would be a terrible idea," the man said with a grin as wide as a banana.