Chapter Eight

It had been two nights since Richie told him that his son's name was Frankie and he was a freshman at NYU.  A music major.  Richie had even managed to snap a picture of the boy with his cell phone.  The guitarist hadn't lied; the boy looked just like him, same square chin, same high cheekbones, same mouth.  Hell, the boy even had his smirk down.

The only reason he'd come to this show was because the man he was looking for wouldn't have seen him at his office.  The two of them had not parted company on as good a terms as they'd both led the public to believe.  Jon had agreed not to press charges for the money Doc had stolen, if Doc agreed not to let on that there had been any hard feelings between them and to continue to keep the 'Brotherhood' secrets that Doc had been privy to .  When the statute of limitations had ran out, Jon had added the promise of financial ruin.  Funny how their situations were completely reversed now.  Before, Doc had been the one with the knowledge, money and the power.  Now, the shoe was on the other foot.  If given the provocation Jon could and would squash the slimy little man like a bug.

Once Crooked X had taken the stage, Jon headed toward the side entrance.  The security guard there was more than happy to let him backstage, even giving him directions to the media room where he'd find Doc.  When he walked through the door, he let his gaze scan the room, while he tried to avoid the camera flashes and the microphones.  He spotted Doc almost immediately; he was right where Jon expected him to be - where the most media people were gathered.  Two words came to mind.  Leopard.  Spots.

Jon braved the cameras, risking a picture making the gossip rags of the two of them together.  At this point, he didn't care.  He saw the look of surprise and fear in Doc's eyes before he even said a word.

"I need to speak with you," Jon said softly, menacingly.

Doc nodded.  "Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen.  I need to have a few minutes alone with an old friend."

Jon almost laughed out loud at the term.  Friend?  Not hardly.  

Doc led Jon out into the hall.  With his hands stuck into his pockets, the shorter, stockier man rocked back on his heels then forward onto the balls of his feet.  "Long time, no see, Jonny boy.  To what do I owe the honor of your visit?"

"I need information that only you can give me," Jon answered.  He knew if he wanted to find out what this greasy little man knew he'd have to pretend that a) it wasn't all that important to him if he found out or not, and b) that he didn't hold Doc responsible for any of it.

"I'm always happy to be of service to you, Jonny," Doc replied.

Jon tried really hard to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.  "I'm sure you are.  Right before the European leg of the New Jersey Tour, I met a woman.  When I left to go out on the road again, I gave her the address and phone number of McGhee Management to be able to get in contact with me.  I want to know if she ever used that information."

Doc shrugged casually.  "That was a long time ago, Jonny.  I can't remember what I had for breakfast."

"The letter would've said something about her being pregnant.  Her name was Kimber Cartwright, the letter would've been received in the fall of '88," Jon tried to keep his voice even and light.  "I already know there was a letter.  I just need you to confirm it."

"Jon, do you know how many letters like that you got back in the day?  I protected you and the others from all of those kinds of claims," Doc replied, his voice indignant, defensive.

Jon's stomach roiled.  Biting back the urge to grab Doc by the neck and choke him until he turned blue, Jon forced a smile.  "I know you protected us.  I also know that you would've kept any of them that had a grain of plausibility.  I'd be willing to put money on the fact that you've got them all filed in neat little boxes with each of our names on them," he tried to sound teasing, but barely pulled it off without it coming across with a sneer.

"How much money?" Doc asked, with just barely a note of eagerness.

"You mean you don't have them filed that way?" Jon asked, just a touch of astonishment entering his tone.

"Naaa," Doc shook his head, "there's the boxes with your name and Rich's, but then just one other box with all the rest thrown in."

"I need to get my hands on that letter," Jon said, knowing how much this was going to cost him.  He barely flinched when he threw his pride and dignity out the window.  "I'll owe ya."  Jon reluctantly handed over a card.  "Have someone call me if and when you find it."  He hated giving this greasy little man a way to contact him, even after all these years, but for the sake of a son he'd never had the opportunity to get to know, Jon would do anything.

"I'll see what I can do, and let ya know," Doc answered with a smirk.  It was worth any amount of trouble to have this man owe him a favor.

"Thanks," Jon replied, almost choking on the word.  "I'll be waiting to hear from you."

He turned on his heel and walked away, although every fiber of his being demanded he just beat the man until he found out what he wanted to know.  Jon kept his clenched fists in the pockets of his jeans to keep from turning around and doing just that.  He could feel Doc's beady little eyes on his back, and knew the wheels in the man's head were already turning.

He left the venue, driving toward a little hole in the wall place that the investigator he'd had follow Frankie had told him about.  Jon was anxious to see if what he'd been told was true.  Although all of his children showed signs of having inherited his artistic and creative qualities, none of them had shown an interest in his true passion.  Music.  Until now.

Pulling on a baseball cap, he climbed out of the car.  He was careful in the dark and smoky room, moving to a corner booth.  The young waitress didn't show any signs of recognition, and that was just fine with him.  He sent her off with an order for the best bottle of white the place had.

Before she came back, Jon's breath caught in his throat when a young man that looked so much like him that it hurt took the stage.  The young man's light brown hair was shaggy and hung down to his shoulders.  Jon smiled when he recognized the guitar hanging around the boy's shoulders.  A gorgeous Takamine.  The boy even had his taste in guitars.  

When he started playing, his fingers were strong and sure as they danced across the strings.  Jon was sure that Frankie could give Richie a run for his money.  But then, he opened his mouth to sing.  His voice was clear and powerful, with a depth and clarity that had Jon smiling with pride.

He was good.  Damn good.