Chapter 25: To Protect and to Serve

Phoenix, Arizona

April 15, 2000

Ryan Dover, the head of security for Jake Kingsley’s Millennial Tour, stood backstage and watched as the band went through the sound check at 5:30 PM. The seats were all empty at America West Arena—home of the Phoenix Suns—but in another hour the doors would open and the ticket holders would begin to flood in for the second of two shows in the desert city. The arena was one of the smaller ones on the tour, only capable of holding around fourteen thousand for concerts unless they were performed on a rotating round stage placed in the middle of the arena floor; technology which the Jake Kingsley Millennial Tour was not equipped with or trained for. Still, at an average ticket price of two hundred and forty dollars, selling twenty-eight thousand was quite profitable.

Ryan, at forty-eight years of age, was in exquisite shape. He was five-foot-nine and a hundred and ninety pounds of solid muscle, without even a hint of a beer belly. His hairline had started receding in his late twenties and he had kept his head cleanly shaven ever since. He was dressed in a pair of well broken-in blue jeans and a button-up short sleeve shirt with two pockets on the front. The pockets contained his notebook, two pens, a few two-inch by four-inch glossy photographs, and twelve of his business cards. He wore Nike cross-trainers on his feet. His all-access pass hung around his neck on a chain that would break away if he got into a scuffle and someone grabbed it and tugged. Clipped to his belt was a Motorola portable radio that was connected by a wire to an earbud in his left ear. The earbud, in addition to allowing him to hear what others on their portable radios were saying even if the performance was in progress, also allowed his voice to be transmitted by picking up the sound of it that traveled through his skull to the inner ear. It was the very latest in communications technology that larger law enforcement agencies were just started to equip their patrol officers with. He carried no weapon. The only armed member of the security force was Chris Dick, his second in command. Chris was the one who went out to the radio stations and music stores with Jake and whoever was accompanying him on any given day. As an honorably retired LA County sheriff’s deputy, Chris had the right to carry concealed pretty much anywhere in the United States as long as he kept his qualifications up.

There were six primary security personnel under Ryan’s command. If need be, he was authorized to pull an additional six from the ranks of the roadies to augment. So far, he had not needed to do that. In addition, he was in de facto charge of the twenty-eight private security personnel who worked for the venue itself. There would also be six Phoenix police officers assigned to the event. They would arrive just before the doors opened. He was not in charge of them, but he would work closely with their sergeant and they would be able to communicate with each other via Motorola radio if necessary. As a former London Metropolitan police officer, he usually got along well with the American cops he worked with as they traveled about.

Ryan watched the soundcheck every day, not because there were any actual security concerns during this part of the routine—after all, there was only band, crew, and arena personnel present in the venue at that point—but because of another of his primary, though unwritten duties. It was after the soundcheck when the bandmembers typically put in any requests for after the show. It was his job to delegate the fulfillment of those requests to the best of his ability. His was a position of great responsibility.

The techs and the band finally reached agreement that the levels were set correctly. The roadies collected the instruments that were portable and brought them backstage. The musicians then took off their ears, unclipped their boxes, and placed them in the spots that had been designated for them. They then began to drift toward the backstage door and the tunnel that led back to the clubhouse and locker rooms.

“What’s up, Ryan?” Jake greeted politely as he and his wife walked by.

“Hey, Ryan,” said Laura Kingsley, who everyone except Jake called Teach. Jake called her ‘hon’ or ‘babe’ when he was talking to her and ‘Laura’ when he was talking to someone else about her. Ryan had wondered a few times why Jake did not use his wife’s nickname, which was very cool and pretty relevant since she used to be a teacher. He figured there had to be a reason but he could not even begin to fathom what it might be. And it was not really his business so he had never enquired.

“Jake, Teach,” Ryan greeted. “You sounded good up there.”

“Of course we did,” Jake said with a smile.

Neither Jake nor Teach put in a request. Ryan’s information was that they probably never would. The rule about what happens on the road stays on the road did not apply when members of the security team shared information among themselves. Information was everything. Mike Royal and Roger Clemson, two of his men, had worked with the Celia Valdez Tour back in 98 and for the North American portion of the tour she was currently embarked upon. They had shared what they knew about the Kingsleys with him, knowing that the information would not travel beyond their little circle. Teach was bisexual and had been in the habit back in the day of ordering up a little female companionship from time to time—a habit that Jake knew about and did not have a problem with. After that idiot copilot had blabbed his big fucking mouth (and then had that mouth wired shut for six or seven weeks after Coop beat his ass for it) Teach’s dalliance with the groupies had come to an end. But by the beginning of the latest tour, a new dynamic had been introduced. Jake and Teach were now getting it on with Celia Valdez whenever the three of them got together. Ryan could not help but be envious of his boss about that particular relationship.

Doug Foreman walked by next. He nodded at Ryan but did not say anything. Ryan nodded back and kept his mouth shut as well. Doug would never order up a groupie either. He strongly disapproved of the whole groupie situation and had had it put into his contract that he would be whisked away from the venues immediately after each show so he would not have to witness the spectacle. Foreman was polite and businesslike to Ryan and did seem to respect and appreciate the security aspect of what Ryan did, but it was clear that he disliked him overall because of the role he played in acquiring the requests. Ryan did not take this personally. He had a lot of experience working with people who did not like him.

“Yo, Brother Rye-Rye,” said James, the bass player, as he and Lucky the drummer approached.

“Gentlemen,” Ryan greeted. He was not really fond of being called ‘Rye-Rye’ but he gave no hint of this to the two black musicians.

“Can we step over into the corner for a minute?” Lucky asked. “Have a word, perhaps?”

“Absolutely,” Ryan said knowingly. Lucky and James had been proliferate requesters ever since San Diego. They had taken last night off from scoring some trim (as they called it) but it seemed they wanted back in the action tonight.

The three of them walked over into a corner and Ryan pulled out his notebook and a pen. “What’ll it be tonight?” he asked them.

“Do there be any Indian trim out there?” asked James. “I ain’t never had me no Indian pussy.”

“Dot or feather?” Ryan asked.

“Uh ... feather,” James said. “Although I ain’t ever had me no dot either. Any chance of getting one of each?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Ryan said with a shrug. “There are lots of both in the Phoenix area. I’m sure there’ll be a few of each at the staging areas.”

“Make it happen then,” James said. “It’s good to try new things.”

Ryan nodded and then wrote down James: dot and feather combo platter.

“And what about you, Lucky?” he asked the drummer.

“I want a fat white girl with big floppy titties,” he said. “Early twenties preferably.”

“How fat are we talking here?” Ryan asked without blinking an eye.

“Not grotesque fat,” he qualified, “but cute fat. You know, one of them bitches with the pretty face and nice skin but who is chunked up?”

“There are always a variety of those hanging out,” Ryan told him. “No problem at all. Just one?”

“Just one will do me tonight,” Lucky told him.

Ryan nodded and wrote down Lucky: cute fat, 20-25, white, big tits.

“You got it,” he said.

He exchanged an elaborate handshake with each of them, performing the ritual perfectly. He had been the second in command of security for a Snoop Dogg tour once and had learned it back then.

James and Lucky headed for the door. Massa, the shy and quiet violinist, stepped forward next. Massa, since that first groupie that the rhythm section had talked him into in Vegas, had ordered up another last night. It seemed he was enjoying his tour.

“Hi, Ryan,” he said quietly. “I was wondering if I could ... you know ... put in a request?”

“You don’t have to ask, Massa,” Ryan told him. “I’m not ever going to say no.”

“Oh ... yeah ... I guess that makes sense,” Massa said. “Thanks.”

“Just doing my job,” Ryan told him. “What’ll it be tonight?”

“Well ... uh ... I was thinking, uh ... if it’s not too much trouble ... if maybe you can find me an Asian girl.”

“No trouble at all,” he said. “What kind of Asian do you prefer?”

“What kind? Uh ... you know, in her twenties like always.”

“I mean what nationality,” Ryan said. “Asia is a big place with lots of different countries. I’m assuming you don’t want a dot Indian, right? They are technically Asian, you know.”

“Uh ... no, not an Indian,” Massa said. He considered for a moment. “At least not tonight.”

“No dot,” Ryan said. “So, what are we talking here? Japanese? Chinese? Vietnamese? Hmong? There’s always lots of all of that in this part of the world.”

“It ... uh ... doesn’t really matter,” Massa said. “As long as she’s good looking.”

“They all look alike to you, do they?” Ryan asked, straight-faced.

“Huh?” Massa asked, confused.

“Never mind,” Ryan said. “I’ll make it happen for you, Massa.”

“Thanks,” Massa said. He then wandered off in the direction of the door.

Massa: Asian, hot, nationality unimportant, 20-28, he wrote.

That was usually the end of the requests on any given night. He was surprised, however, to see Steph the guitarist stepping forward, a nervous expression on her face. This should be interesting, he thought, looking up and meeting her gaze. He knew she was a lesbian, of course, and that this was her first actual tour in major arenas with a large act.

“Hi, Ryan,” she said quietly. “How’s it going?”

“It’s going just fine,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

She flushed a little. “Uh ... well ... I was talking to Lucky and Massa after the show last night and they said that ... uh ... you know ... that you are the one to talk to about ... you know... companionship after the show.”

“Indeed, I am,” he said with a nod. “Would you be requesting a little companionship for tonight, my dear?”

“Uh ... maybe,” she said. “My situation is a little different than Massa or Lucky or James though.”

“It’s not really all that different,” he assured her. “I assume you will be wanting female companionship?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “Is that possible? Are there lesbians that hang out ... you know ... in those staging areas?”

“Not full-blown lesbians like yourself,” Ryan said, “because there is a price to be paid for admission that a true bush pilot would never be willing to shell out.”

“Oh ... yes,” Steph said, nodding. “That makes sense.”

“So, while actual sausage dodgers are almost unheard of in this environment, there are plenty of girls out there who quite enjoy yodeling in the canyon if the canyon in question belongs to a member of the band.”

“Yodeling in the canyon,” she said with a little chuckle. “I like that.”

“As do I,” he assured her. “I do it whenever I can. So ... just one?”

“Just one what?” she asked.

“One canyon yodeler,” he said. “Or would you like more than one?”

Her eyes got wide for a moment. “Wow,” she whispered, imaging the possibilities. She then shook her head a little. “I think I’ll just go with one at this point.”

“Very good,” he said, clicking his pen. “Butch or femme?”

“Femme,” she said without hesitation.

“Age range?”

“Wow,” she said again. “Uh ... around thirty or so?”

“Excellent choice,” he said. “Ethnicity? Body type?”

“Uh ... well ... white I guess,” she said. “I’ve never really tried anything else.”

He nodded. “Tattoos, piercings, unusual hair, artificial breasts. Is any of that a perk or a deal breaker?”

She thought this over for a moment. “Tattoos and piercings are okay,” she said. “Maybe even a little bit hot. Fake boobs is a turn-off for me though.”

“Okay then,” he said. “I’ll make it happen for you.”

“Thanks, Ryan,” she said, giving him a smile.

“You know, of course, that you should not kiss her?”

She nodded. “Massa and Lucky told me about that,” she said.

“They are very wise indeed,” he said.

She gave him one last smile and then headed for the door. Steph: lip-lez, white, 28-35, tat and metal ok, no bolt-ons, he wrote.

He was about to put his little notebook back in his pocket when he noticed Tif standing about ten feet away, looking at him hesitantly. She was dressed in her street clothes, which were considerably more slutty-looking than her stage clothes. She sported a tube top and a pair of tight denim shorts. Her hair, which was now blonde as of last night’s performance, was done up in pigtails. Ryan took a moment to admire her form. She really was put together quite nicely. And she could sing like an angel. She was also as dumb as a fence post.

“Did you need something, my darling?” Ryan asked her, noting that her top was so tight that he could tell she had a nipple ring in her right tit.

“Uh ... yeah ... I do,” she said nervously.

“Well, come on over here and let me know what it is,” he offered.

She walked over to him, a shy smile on her face. “I was talking to James and Lucky and they said, that ... uh ... you are the one that finds those groupies for them.”

“That information is correct,” Ryan allowed. “Were you interested in a little companionship of your own for after the show tonight?”

“Well ... that depends,” she said.

“On what?” he asked.

“On ... uh ... well, are you only able to get girls? Not that I have a problem with girls. I really like doing it with a girl every now and then.”

That does not surprise me in the least, Ryan thought. “Interesting,” he said with a nod. “But to answer your question, I should be able to arrange for a nice companion with a Y chromosome to entertain you after the show if that is what you desire.”

“That’s totally cool,” Tif said, “but will it be a guy?”

“Uh ... yes, I think I can get you a guy,” he told her. And this was true. While there were no actual male groupies except the twinks—a certain number of twinks always hung around just on the off chance that Jake or one of the other male bandmembers might be a double agent—there was always a good turnout of hangers, as they were known, in any gathering of groupies. A hanger was a heterosexual male—generally young and attractive—who was not really interested in making his way backstage, but had learned that if he hung out with the groupies he would be able to score with one (or more) of those who were not selected to go backstage. On the rare occasions when a heterosexual male groupie was needed, a hanger could usually be persuaded to make the journey. And they did not even have to pay the price for admission since sucking the dick of a security guy or a roadie was usually a deal breaker for such people.

“That’s good,” Tif said. “Because I haven’t been with a guy in a really long time now. Well ... not for anything but my singing ointment anyway.”

“Singing ointment?” he asked.

“Yeah ... you know?” she said coyly.

“Uh ... right,” he said, confused. He knew for a fact that she and Massa had been slipping away together once a week for the entire run of tour rehearsal. Was she truly trying to say they had not been fucking each other? And what the hell was this singing ointment she was talking about? He decided this was all irrelevant. He clicked open his pen. “What kind of guy are you interested in, Tif?”

“Well ... I’m a Taurus, so obviously he has to be a Virgo or a Scorpio.”

“Of course,” Ryan said slowly. “And ... uh ... Virgos and Scorpios are born when?”

She rolled her eyes as if he had just asked the dumbest question in the history of questions. “Duh!” she said. “Virgos are August 23 to September 23. Scorpios are October 23 to November 22.”

“I see,” he said. “And ... uh ... Virgos are preferred?”

“Totally,” she said. “If there are none available, however, a Scorpio is okay.”

“Got it,” he said. “What else?”

“What else what?” she asked.

“Uh ... what else are you looking for in a companion. I have male, heterosexual, Virgo. That’s a good start. How old? What color hair? What kind of build?”

“Oh ... I see,” she said. “Age doesn’t really matter. Good looking is good, as long as he’s a Virgo or a Scorpio. I’d rather have an ugly Virgo than a hot Capricorn, you know what I’m saying?”

“I know what you’re saying,” he said. “I’ll see what I can come up with.”

“That’s totally cool,” Tif said happily.

“Since you’ve never done this before,” Ryan said, “let me give you a little rundown on the particulars.”

“Okay,” she said.

“Do not let your guy provide his own condom,” Ryan explained. “One of our people will put some condoms in your street clothes for you. Use only those condoms.”

“I don’t use condoms,” she said. “I’m on the pill.”

“Use the condoms,” Ryan told her. “Unless you’re a fan of gonorrhea or syphilis or chlamydia.”

“Ewww,” she said, making a sour face.

“And I wouldn’t recommend kissing him either,” Ryan said. “While your companion will not have to pay the price of the other companions, you still don’t want to go there. God only knows where a guy who primarily gets his sex from rejected groupies has been sticking his tongue or putting his lips.”

Her sour face darkened even more. It was now bordering on a look of disgust. “You know ... I think maybe I don’t want to do this after all,” she said.

“Really?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “Forget I even asked. I’ll just get some the old-fashioned way.”

“Uh ... well ... okay, Tif,” he told her. “I’ll forget you asked.”

“What about you?” she asked.

“What about me?” he asked, again with no idea of what she was talking about.

“You’re a good-looking guy,” she said. “Maybe a little older than I’m used to, but there’s nothing wrong with that. Do you want to fuck me?”

He took a deep breath, amazed at how casually she had thrown that out there. A part of him—the Little Ryan part—was very interested. But Big Ryan had long ago learned not to listen too much to Little Ryan. “I’m flattered, my dear,” he said, “but that is just not possible.”

“Ohhh,” she said. “You’re gay?”

“Uh ... no,” he said. “I am quite sure I’m not gay. It’s just that I have a position of responsibility here on the tour. I cannot allow myself to have distractions such as would occur if I started fucking one of the musicians.”

“I’m not one of the musicians,” she said. “I’m a singer.”

Ryan took another deep breath and then slowly blew it out. He thought for a second or two and then said: “Uh ... yes, but you do play the tambourine, don’t you? That technically makes you a musician, right?”

“Oh ... yeah,” she said, frowning. “Now I wish Jake wouldn’t have taught me to play it.”

“But you play it so beautifully,” Ryan told her.

“Oh! Thanks!” she said brightly. She then smiled again. “What if we made a vow to not do it while you’re working?”

“I’m afraid that as head of tour security, I am always on duty.”

Her smile turned to back to a frown and she then used a Jake-ism she had learned. “What a rip.”

“Indeed,” Ryan agreed with some regret.

Tif walked slowly to the backstage door and walked through it. Ryan watched her ass and her legs until she disappeared. Little Ryan was a bit upset with him, but that was not really an uncommon occurrence. Little Ryan would be happy later tonight. He usually was on performance nights.

Once he heard on his radio that all of the musicians were safely in the clubhouse, Ryan left the backstage area and made his way to the main entrance, where Josh Campbell, another of his crew, was standing post with two of the arena security force. In another thirty-five minutes this passageway would become a busy place.

“How’s it look out there?” Ryan asked.

“They’re all lined up and ready to push on in,” Josh said.

Ryan shook his head a little. “I don’t understand the need for them line up hours early,” he said. “They all have reserved seats. They could stroll in here at 7:10 and still have time to get a beer and find their seats before the show starts.”

Josh shrugged. “Human nature, I guess.”

“I suppose,” Ryan said.

They talked for a few minutes about the security concerns specific to this venue and then he strolled off again, this time heading for the arena floor. There, on the soundboard, he found Bart Morgenstern the head sound guy and two of his techs. Mike Royal, another of Ryan’s people, was stationed there with them, sitting in a chair near the back, out of the way. The front of the soundboard was one of the primary staging areas for groupies to gather and it would be Mike’s duty to identify any potential prospects.

“What are we looking for tonight?” Mike asked his boss.

Ryan flipped his notebook open. “For James, we want a dot and feather combo. We’ll probably be more likely to find something like that at the loading door.”

“Probably,” Mike agreed. “It’s mostly good old white trash groupies that hang here.”

“Lucky wants a young and pretty but fat white chick with big tits,” Ryan said. “This seems a likely location for something like that to show up. If one does, don’t turn her away.”

“You got it, boss,” Mike said. “In my experience, those fatties give spectacular head.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Better than a Catholic chick,” Mike told him.

“That is a bold claim,” Ryan said.

“You want to try it tonight?” Mike asked.

“I’ll think it over,” Ryan said. “Massa is asking for an Asian tonight, normal age-range, nationality not important as long as it’s not a dot.”

“It’s good to see him trying all the flavors of the rainbow,” Mike said.

“Isn’t it? And Steph has requested a lipstick lesbian, white, thirty to thirty-five, piercings and tats okay, but no fake tits.”

Mike gave a little grin. “Steph’s getting in the game, huh?”

“We all have needs that we yearn to have fulfilled,” Ryan said.

“She knows the deal about kissing them?”

“She knows the deal,” Ryan assured him.

“Fair enough,” Mike said. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled. Lots of chicks like to come up here and make out with each other to keep from being turned back to their seats. Shouldn’t be too hard to find one willing to give Steph a ride.”

“That’s what I figured,” Ryan said. “Oh yes, and be sure to keep an eye out for guns and knives and things like that. The outside security here is a joke.”

“It’s a joke pretty much everywhere,” Mike said with a sigh.

This was sad but true, Ryan knew. If someone really wanted to do harm to Jake or one of the bandmembers at a show like this, it would not be too difficult. But so far, in his career, he had never had to deal with anything like that. He had seen lots of drunken bimbos rushing the stage, lots of fights in the audience, the occasional fight between bandmembers, but had never had to deal with someone actually going after one of his musicians in the venue. And he hoped quite sincerely that streak would continue forever.

From the soundboard, he walked back to the stage, hefted himself up onto it, and then walked through the stage left door and out the back of the stage to the loading doors. Here was the man door that led to the loading area where the trucks, buses, and limos were parked. Roger Clemson and one of the venue security guys were standing post here. Ryan took Roger aside, asked him a few questions about any particular security concerns at this post (there were none that were not standard at any venue’s man door post) and then briefed him on what kind of groupies they were looking for at this stop. The outside of the man door was the largest primary groupie staging area as the groupies that gathered in this spot had not paid for a ticket to get inside.

Roger absorbed the information like the professional he was and promised to keep his eye out, particularly for a dot and feather combo, which was most likely to be found at this post. They then bullshitted a bit until 6:20, at which point there was a knock on the door. Roger opened it while Ryan stood behind him. It was their crew of Phoenix police officers reporting for duty. They were dressed in the standard issue dark blue patrol uniforms and had standard issue guns, radios, handcuffs, and batons on their belts. Five of them were males. The sergeant of the crew was a female and Ryan assumed by looking at her that she and Steph would have a lot in common.

Ryan and Roger shook hands with all of the cops, checked their credentials, and then handed them all-access passes with breakaway chains. He and the sergeant—her last name was Stark—then had a discussion about where the cops would be posted (they would be in pairs at all times) and what radio frequencies they would share. He let them know that one of his people—Chris Dick—was a former LA County deputy and was armed so they would not overreact when they saw the bulge under his shirt. He showed them a picture of Chris that he carried just for that purpose. They all looked at the picture, memorized the face, and made a mental note not to bury him or draw down on him when they saw him. Ryan decided he liked Stark. She seemed a good cop, a capable leader, and she assured him that neither she nor her men gave a rat’s ass about people smoking weed in the audience or about people being fall-down drunk or even obliterated on acid as long as they did not become a danger to themselves, a danger to others, or start creating a disturbance.

“Sounds like we’re on the same page then,” Ryan told her. “Peace and love is what we desire here.”

“I talked to Jenkins, who was the sergeant here last night,” Stark said. “He said that Kingsley puts on a hell of a show.”

“That he does,” Ryan agreed, quite sincerely. “One of the best I’ve ever seen—and I’ve seen a few in my time.”

“I’m looking forward to experiencing it,” she said. “I’m hoping to just stand my post all night long and hear some good music.”

“That’s what we hope for as well,” Ryan told her.

Ryan returned to the backstage area just before the doors opened. Out on the soundboard, everyone assigned to that position rushed in and had one last bathroom break before the crowd streamed into the arena and surrounded them. If there was an emergency bathroom issue that came to pass out on that soundboard after the crowd arrived, it was possible for a crew member to get to the backstage to deal with it, but it was a huge hassle and frowned upon as a general principle. Soundboard members could hold their bowels and bladders as well as—if not better than—the musicians themselves. They could do it almost as well as paramedics, firefighters, street cops, and surgeons.

About ten minutes after the doors opened and the crowd began to find and take their seats (after buying their ten-dollar beers, twelve-dollar glasses of wine, and fifteen-dollar mixed drinks—the profits from which all went to the venue itself) the crowd of twenty-six limited backstage pass holders from the radio station contests and other VIPs were led back by Chris Dick and John Harlow. Basic background checks had been done on every single person who had been issued such a pass days before. None had any criminal history that involved violent crime, stalking, or restraining orders. All had been frisked by Chris or John before being allowed back.

Ryan took up position in the corner, sitting on a packing crate. He looked over at Chris and was given a thumbs up. He nodded and then keyed up the transmit button on his radio. “This is Dover,” he said, though everyone on the frequency would have no problem identifying his British accented voice. “We’re ready to bring the band back for the meet and greet.”

“Hernandez here,” replied Adrian Hernandez, who was stationed to guard the entrance to the clubhouse and locker room area. “I’ll have Ass-Licker bring ‘em over.” Everyone in the band and several of the close support staff had a codename for use over the radio. This was to keep anyone who might be monitoring from knowing exactly who they were talking about. ‘Ass-Licker’ was the code phrase for Jessie Kearns, the publicity manager. It goes without saying that the security team were the ones to make up those codenames.