Part 177 (1/2)

devastation 1986

The fans themselves were a rainbow. Spiked hair, razor cuts, flowing

manes. The style now was no style at all. Dress ranged from torn jeans

to three-piece suits. A good number of the people jostling for s.p.a.ce

were her father's age and older. Doctors, dentists, executives who had

grown up on rock and roll and shared the legacy with their children.

There were schoolchildren, toddlers carried on shoulders, women wearing

pearls with their daughters clutching newly purchased screen-printed

T-s.h.i.+rts. And, like an echo of the sixties, there was the faint but

unmistakable aroma of pot to mix with the fragrance of Chanel or Brut.

She wandered away, moving slowly through the crowd. The pa.s.s clamped to

the second b.u.t.ton of her jumpsuit had security giving her the nod to go

backstage.

If it was a madhouse out front, it was only madder back here. A faulty

amp, another coil of cable, a frantic roadie rus.h.i.+ng in and out,

desperate to fix the last of the inevitable glitches. She took her

shots, then leaving the technicians and grips to do their job, she

headed toward the dressing rooms to do hers.

She wanted pictures, like the ones she remembered so well in her mind.

Dad and the others sprawled around a dressing room, chainsmoking,

joking, popping gumdrops or sugared almonds. She was just beginning to

smile at the thought when she all but ran into Drew. It was almost as

if he'd been waiting for her.

”h.e.l.lo again.”

”Hi.” She smiled, nervously adjusting the strap of her camera. ”I

wanted to thank you for the present.”