Ch 59 ~ Let's Get Ripped

“C’mon David,” Rachel wheedled as the van door closed with the assembled Bon Jovi crew inside.  There was a second van behind them to join the mystery excursion that he still wouldn’t reveal any details about.  “Where are you taking us?”

“Yeah, what’s the big secret plans that you’ve been blabbering on about all day?” Matt interjected. 

David grinned.  He lived for this shit.  Masterminding some off-the-wall plan and executing it to perfection was his version of heroin or crack.  It was addictive as hell, but without the legal ramifications. 

Usually.

“He likes keeping his junior high secrets like some pre-pubescent girl,” Richie offered dryly, to which Dave returned a two-handed Jersey salute.

“You’re just pissed because I haven’t told you what tonight’s activity is, and you like being in on the hype almost as much as I do.”

Which was true.  Sambora was most often his partner in crime when it came to these things, but David hadn’t felt compelled to allow him into the inner circle this time.  Somehow, it was just more appropriate to go this one alone.  In the dark.  With only the eyes of the night watching.

Muahahaha!

“What-the-fuck-ever,” the guitarist grumbled, half-heartedly returning the salute. 

Rachel, who had managed to keep her newbie excitement about the un-publicized exploits of a band on tour so far, was amusing him to no end as she peppered questions like a seasoned reporter.  “Is it a club?  A show?  Dinner? Because if it’s dinner, you’re not ordering for me this time, I’ll just tell you that right now!”

He giggled like a schoolgirl.  She had gamely stuck knife and fork to the baby squid swimming in its own ink at Botin, without uttering a single word of disgust or protest, but she had only managed to choke down about a quarter of it before proclaiming that the salad had filled her up.  He hadn’t bought that bullshit for a second, but she’d still scored some major points in his book for the way she’d handled the whole thing – and scored him another box of rubbers. 

That was why he felt inclined to throw the gal a bone of sorts.

“No, not dinner tonight.  You can rest easy knowing that you have a tentacle-free evening ahead,” he assured her, accompanying that assurance with an evil grin.  “We should be there soon, but I’ll give you a little hint in the meantime.”

“Oh Christ,” Jon muttered.  “Here goes his Riddler routine…”

“Shut your piehole,” David returned mildly, completely unoffended.  He liked riddles, and liked them even better when he was one telling them. 

“Let him give his hint, babe,” Rachel scolded with a gentle elbow to the singer’s ribs.  “As long as I’m not going to be eating pork snouts or octopus toes, it’s all harmless fun, right?”

Richie snorted.  “With Lema?  Not fuckin’ likely.”

“Hey.  Do you want the hint or not?” David interrupted the slandering of his good character – justified or not.  “Because I can just make you wait and wonder….”

“For Chrissake, spill it already,” Tico grumbled, speaking for the first time.  “It’s like chaperoning a playground with you dickheads blabbering your bullshit.”

That amused David even more.  Tico rarely commented on the shenanigans, preferring to just stay out of the way.  If he was interacting, it was going to be a good night.

“Okay, okay…  Father Time back there has spoken, so here’s your hint…”  David cleared his throat for dramatic effect before offering his clue in an equally dramatic voice.  “Jack be nimble…  Jack be quick…”  He looked around the van at the equally expectant and bored facial expressions of his travel-mates, then directed the last bit of the clue directly toward Rachel, who appeared less bored than the others.  “Jack gonna get him a little slit.”

Her face immediately crumpled into a mask of disgust, and tickled his fancy in the process. 

“Ewww!  David, that’s gross and crass!”

“I am not taking my…”  Jon paused, and when he continued David realized he was looking for the right word.  “Girlfriend to a strip club or a whore house.  Not happening.”

“FYI, they’re called brothels in London,” David corrected casually, while he practically bubbled inside with glee.  “Much classier, these English peeps.”

“I don’t give a shit about classy.  Take us back to the hotel!” Jon ordered the driver, completely unamused.

Rachel put her hand on his arm.  “Relax, big boy.  I don’t think he’d seriously take us – me – someplace like that.”

“Ahhhh…”  David grinned widely and gave her an approving wink of his eye.  “I see why you’re keeping this one around, Obi Wan.  She’s smarter than you are.”

“Where the fuck are we going, Bryan?”

There was nothing David enjoyed more than ruffling his friend and boss’s feathers after a show.  Never before a show, though.  Never.  He’d done it once and once had been enough.  On that particular occasion, Jon had been annoyed and vengeful enough to have a slithery guest awaiting David in his hotel bed – the no-legged kind.  Not that he was afraid of a boa constrictor, but the only snake David wanted in his bed was the one in his boxers.

Lesson learned.

“Calm yourself, man,” he soothed with an upheld palm.  “The Tube Steak Station is just ahead.”

The car went eerily silent, and several pairs of eyes drilled into him with a distinct lack of amusement.

Okay, so that particular bit of humor hadn’t gotten the expected and desired explosion from Jon, nor the anticipated raucous laughter from his other cronies.  Even Sambora hadn’t laughed. 

Fucker.

“Pardon the slip of the tongue, oh Great One.  I meant the tube station.  We’re meeting our party outside the Tower Hill station.”

David’s head snapped forward as though the driver had slammed on the brakes, but no one else was jolted.  When he heard Tico’s voice he realized he’d just been bitch-slapped by the drummer.

“The Sherlock Holmes mystery shit is now officially old, Goldilocks.  You’re gettin’ on my nerves.”

“Goldilocks’s” eyes rolled.  Great.  Now the Cubano was annoyed.  He was probably the least fun to annoy, because he had a tendency to be pissier than Jon when in that mood. 

“Hey, cut the man a little slack.  He’s just tryin’ to work up a little fun,” Sambora – yes, Sambora – defended him.  “Don’t be so uptight.”

David gazed at the man with total incredulity.  “Okay, seriously?  What.  The.  Fuck?  You’re on my side?  Since when the hell does that happen??”

The guitarist lifted one lazy shoulder.  “Must be a full moon or something.”

“No, no, no, no.  It must be an eclipse of the moon.  Some unique force of nature that has disrupted the natural yin and yang of our relationship.  This can’t happen I tell you!  You’re the Batman to my Joker.  The cop to my robber.  The Hitler to my Jew!!” 

David knew he was going way, way past the boundary of reasonable nonsense, but sometimes he just had to push the boundaries.  Perhaps one day they would decide he was psychotic – Hell, who was he kidding?  They already thought that.  It was just more costly to commit him than it was to tolerate him.  But still….  There were unspoken rules.

“Okay, you crazy piece of shit!” Richie exclaimed with upraised hands.  “Tell us where the hell we’re going or I’m gonna beat you to a fucking bloody pulp!”

A warm peace settled over David’s soul.  Once again, all was right in his world. 

He smiled fondly at his arch-enemy-slash-friend.  “Since you asked in such an appropriate manner, I’ll be happy to tell you.” 

The van slowed and pulled to the curb.  One would assume the semi-dark sidewalk to be deserted at this time of night, and it was.  Mostly.  The exception was the lone male figure with a flashlight.

“Ah!  There’s our man, now.”  He pointed toward the shadowy figure standing before the Tower Hill Tram, a refreshment stand that had been closed for hours now. 

“Who is he?” 

“That, my dear lady,” he replied to Rachel.  “Is Donald Rumbelow.”

“Okay, I’ll bite,” said Matt, who had stayed almost unbelievably silent during the trip.  “Who the hell is Donald Rumbelow?”

David clapped the bigger man on the shoulder.  “I’m glad you asked, good fellow,” he approved jovially.  “Mr. Rumbelow is a former City of London police sergeant, former curator of the Crime Museum and  Britain’s foremost crime historian.”

“You brought him in case we kill your ass?” Jon asked dryly.  “Because you know it ain’t gonna help you a bit.  I’ve got friends in the waste management business….”

David smirked.  “Hardee har har…  No.  He’s not here to investigate my impending death, you Mafioso wannabe.  Besides all of his other credentials, Mr. Rumbelow is also the single foremost expert on…”  He paused for dramatic effect before whispering, “Jack the Ripper.  He’s here to guide us through ole Jack’s murder sites, and give us all of the grisly details.”

“Seriously?”  Sambora sat straight up in his seat, peering out the window for a split second before reaching for the door handle.  “Well, what the hell are we waiting for?”

Rachel shuddered as Jon followed right behind Richie and then Matt.  “This was creepy enough when I read about it in my tour book, but you realize how exceptionally creepy this is in the middle of the night, right?”

“That’s the whole point, Rach.” David slung an arm around her shoulders and leaned down and whispered in her ear.  “Now let’s go get ‘ripped’, shall we?”