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assume defensive postures.   It’s possible they’ve heard about Tear-It-Up Kilgour and how he’s famous for destroying rooms and furniture.
    I sit dispassionately watching his tantrum, slowly lowering my glass to the tabletop.   I will not react like he wants me to.
    “Mel doesn’t pick my friends for me.   I pick my own friends.” He sounds like a small child.   It’s sad, not scary like he intends it.
    “And you do such a good job of it,” I say, deliberately egging him on.   It will help my case to have something to talk about with him later … when I’m convincing him he needs me.
    He walks around the table and bends over, his face only inches from mine.   I can smell old booze on his breath and the stink of cigarettes.   I remind myself to bring an extra toothbrush on the boat.
    “Listen, girl … I don’t know who you are or where the hell you came from, but you stay the fuck away from me and my friends, you hear me?   Stay away.”
    I blink once and give him a bland smile.   “Have a good night, Tarin.   Try and stay out of trouble.” I say this knowing it will make him crazy.   Maybe it isn’t the best approach, but something about him is making me act a little reckless.   More reckless than I probably should be.
    “Fuck that,” he says.   He stares at me hard for several seconds, either waiting for me to respond or just trying to wrap his head around who I might be.   Either way, he gives up when I say nothing and storms off.
    The waiter comes over and looks at me nervously.   “Are you all right, Miss Barnes?”
    I nod.   “I’m fine.   All in a day’s work, right?”
    “If you say so.”   He picks up the tipped over glass on Mel’s side of the table and puts a fresh napkin down over the small amount of wine that stained the linen.   “Will you be staying for dinner?”
    “Yes.   I’m just going to find myself another date.   Bring me a shrimp cocktail while I wait, would you please?”
    “Of course.”   He walks away and leaves me to make a phone call.
    “What’s up?” comes the voice on the other end of the line.
    “Feel like eating filet mignon with bearnaise sauce?”
    “Does the Pope eat pizza?”
    I laugh.   “I don’t know.   Does he?”
    “Fuck yeah, he does.   The guy lives in Italy.   I’ll be right over.   Fifteen minutes max.   Order for me.”
    “You got it.   See you.”   I hang up and pour myself another glass of wine and smile to myself.   Everything is going according to plan.   Now all I have to do is convince a bunch of rock and roll stars and their best friends that Tarin Kilgour needs to be reined in and managed before disaster strikes.   Piece of cake.

Chapter Six

    I WAIT UNTIL THE LAST person has arrived before I signal Mel to start the show.   We’re gathered at his private residence, a place most of these people have never seen.   They know this is a big deal, all of them talking softly among themselves, probably speculating about why they’re here. Some are seated and some are standing, all together in the huge living room Mel uses to entertain.   It’s much too big for a childless couple to use on a regular basis.
    “Is this going to take long?   Because we have a session in a couple hours.”   I look for the source of the voice and recognize the rhythm guitarist standing off to the side, looking annoyed.
    Mel is in front of the crowd, holding out his hands for silence.   “It shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes unless you want it to take longer.” Mel lets his not-so-subtle hint sink in before continuing.   “I’ve asked you here for Tarin.   It’s that simple.   The people in this room are his closest friends.   We’re starting with you and then we’ll move on to the crew and the others.”
    “Starting what?” asks the guitarist.
    “The intervention.   Of sorts.”
    The guitarist shakes his head.   “No way, man.   Don’t even bother.”
    A few of the other people look over at