"Hm. Small world," I said, maneuvering The Boat in front of Steve's mailbox, throwing the transmission into park. His house was dark, not a light on inside or out. As he had said, there was a big red Bronco sitting at the end of the driveway.

"Small town," Steve corrected. "Hey, do you mind if I finish my beer before I get out? And can you kill the lights? Don't want Mary to know I'm back yet."

"Uh, sure," I said, flicking the headlights off. Ace Frehley was breaking into one of his patented guitar solos as I did.

"You ever notice how Ace Frehley's guitar always sounds sad?" Steve asked, taking another drink from the can. "I mean, I've always thought it was some kind of expression of how he felt about things with KISS."

I wasn't sure what he was getting at, but I listened.

"I mean," he continued, "Paul Stanley and Gene Simmons always got the credit for their success, mainly because they were the lead singers, I guess. But I still think that Ace's playing had a lot more to do with it then he was ever given credit for." He took another drink.

"Yeah," I agreed, ready for him to leave so I could get my Friday night going. "He does play a mean guitar."

"But it's more than that, man," he answered. "It's like football. Pete was my friend and all, but just because he was this fancy quarterback, he got most of the notice for our championship. But us other players had a lot to do with it, you know? Used to piss me off royally that he always got what he wanted. Maybe that's why Ace left KISS for so long: to get his due." He killed the beer and crushed the can in his hands. "Sometimes you think you're doing everything right, but people still look elsewhere. It's fucked up, man. At least KISS found a way to fix things up. Guess there's always a way." He reached for the door handle. I looked at the big Bronco sitting in the drive.

"Nice truck, Steve," I said, trying to change the subject.

"It's not mine," he replied. I didn't ask. He continued: "Can you do me one more favor, kid? I gotta run in the house and get something real quick that I wanna give you. Shouldn't take long."

I was confused. "Oh... Okay. Yeah. We'll wait."

He opened the door, stepped out, then turned and looked back in, first giving Angie a strange glance, then facing me. "You always gotta be careful," he said, then shut the door.

As he opened the front door of his house and walked in, Angie looked at me. "What the heck was that all about?" She asked.

For the second time that night, I shrugged. "I have no idea. He said he was fighting with his wife. I guess it was bothering him more than he let on. I wonder what he wants to bring m--"

Suddenly there were two loud pops from inside the house. I was looking at Angie, and from behind her I could see the darkened front windows of the place light up at the same time with two quick flashes.

"What the...?" I whispered. Angie jerked her head around.

The front door of the house swung open, and Steve walked out. In one hand he held something red and white -- looked like a small blanket from where we were. His other hand was in his coat pocket.

He stepped over to my side of the car. I nervously rolled down the window.

"Here, kid." He handed me the red and white thing through the open window. It was his old football jersey. "They were cheating on me, man, cheating on me. I knew it for awhile."

Then he stepped back, pulled the pistol he was hiding from his pocket, put it against his head, and fired.

Angie screamed.

I froze.

Ace Frehley's guitar was crying on the radio.