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event. Still, Crispin wondered whether they would live up to their reputation as one of the most badly behaved groups of all time. Once an anarchic thrash band of the loudest, most garrulous sort, the Ladykillers’ reputation had rested as much on their off-stage antics as anything they could reasonably claim to have created musically. After more than a decade, they managed to produce only three slim recordings, since re-released on CD, two of which Crispin believed stood the test of time — but just barely. The third and final album had been crap. Tellingly, it was their most popular work. A much-anticipated fourth record was never finished, though it was rumoured to be just waiting in the wings for a few finishing touches.
    Crispin knew the Ladykillers well. He’d covered them since the early days when they were little more than a garage band from the wrong side of the tracks in Spokane. Long after The Who, long after Hendrix or the Motor City Five, the Ladykillers were known for destruction — and not only in the midst of their sets. Loud, violent, and bad-tempered, at times it seemed annihilation had been their intent more than anything that smacked of music-making.
    Back then, of course, you could always chalk it up to artistic excess. Nothing succeeded — or sold — like excess. Then came that unfortunate incident at a CD release party where a young woman died. At the time, she’d seemed like just one more victim of an excessive age. Fingers had been pointed all around. Someone went to jail for it for a few years. But if the truth be told, more than one person had been responsible. Even the critics had to shoulder some of the blame. They’d stroked the band’s egos and made them into something far bigger than they deserved. Ultimately, their legend had grown to such an extent that everyone thought they were the only important band around. The second coming of punk rock. And for that, he, Crispin LaFey, had been as much a part of it as anyone.
    The music died down as a Carpenters tune came on. Crispin heard the couple talking again. She was asking about the island he was heading for.
    â€œIt’s called Shark Island,” he replied.
    For a moment, there was a lull broken only by the shushing of the rails beneath them.
    â€œBut that’s where I’m going,” the woman said, placing a hand on his forearm.
    The real-estate agent gave her a knowing smile. “Then let’s order another round. We’ll have a good time getting to know each other.” He looked over his shoulder briefly then turned back to Janice. His voice took on a smooth, practised sound. “I know we haven’t known each other long,” he said, “but I feel I know you already.”
    â€œIs that a fact?”
    â€œYes, it is. So I’m just wondering — is there any chance you’d like to help me in my bid to become a member-in-good-standing of the Ten Foot High Club?”
    She looked at him quizzically. “The what?”
    He nodded over his shoulder at the washroom door. His eyebrows arched coyly as the tip of his tongue traced the outline of his lips. “The Ten Foot High Club. Seeing how this is a train and not a plane …”
    She sat back in her seat and shook her head. “Brother, you are forward.”
    â€œNever hurts to ask,” he said, taking another pull on his beer.
    She smiled. “And sometimes you end up getting what you ask for.” She picked up her purse. “Give me thirty seconds. Then follow me.”
    He watched in the mirror as she headed over to the washroom, unlatched the door, and let herself in.

Chapter 5
    T he limo swerved and came to a stop at the side of the road. An aging rocker, tall and thin in peg-leg pants, sleeveless T-shirt, and black leather vest, got out of the driver’s seat and looked at the back tire on the passenger side.
    â€œIt’s fine!” he shouted to the pair inside, a little louder