Chase to the Encore

by P G Loiselle

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Mainstream Static

  Hard 'n' Heavy

  Tape Hiss

  Atomic Drop

  Battle Point

  Rock Bottom

  Reunion Tour

  Encore

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Still Here?

  This novel’s story is fictitious. Any events and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. With the exception of public figures, any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental. Certain public figures of prominence have been added in cameo roles to enhance the realism of the story. Everything these public figures do or say in the story is purely fictional.

  Copyright © 2020 by P.G. Loiselle

  All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests, contact the copyright owner at the author website below.

  First Edition: February 2020

  Cover Design by Janis Elko

  ISBN 978-3-9821627-0-6 (Paperback)

  ISBN 978-3-9821627-2-0 (MOBI)

  ISBN 978-3-9821627-1-3 (EPUB)

  Published by P.G. Loiselle

  www.pgloiselle.com

  Prologue

  Serge couldn’t have foreseen the penetrating tip of cold steel glide like a butter knife into his still beating heart. I am sure of it. While the serrated blade lunged back and forth, devastating this organ, the stabbing pain must have given way to the realization, the real agony, that he’d never see his wife, Carol, and daughter, Amy, again. The poor guy might have dropped like a sack. Or maybe the man’s life only oozed out of his fatal wound, giving him a moment to contemplate his fate. Either way, his story came to an abrupt and unnecessary end.

  His wife and daughter would live on.

  The killer would probably forget that day or at least let it fade from his memory. For Serge’s family, the day he went missing would scar them forever, and the sun would never rise and fall without him weighing on their minds.

  During the period when it all fell apart between me and Amy, she was the one who reached out. I figured our friendship was broken for good, but she fixed it with a half-page full of pen-strokes.

  Dear Luke,

  Even though you’re an ass sometimes, I still love you.

  Not many people would put up with my bullshit and stand behind me like you did, and I’m eternally grateful. And sorry. I tried to keep a straight head, but I let my obsession for this justice thing get the better of me. Serge was my rudder, my rock, the life-force that stabilized me. With him gone, I felt lost and scattered and wasn’t about to leave myself vulnerable to anybody. There’s only one way to settle this, and that’s by righting a wrong. It won’t bring back Serge, but it will help me, and maybe others, past, present or future. I need you, Luke. I need you. All of you.

  Love always.

  Amy.

  As I read her letter, again and again that night, thinking about her asserting how she needs me, Jim Morrison’s lyrics from “Roadhouse Blues” kept echoing in my ears: “Well, I woke up this morning and I got myself a beer. The future’s uncertain and the end is always near.”

  At first, Morrison’s words dragged me down. How can the end be near if I really hadn’t begun yet? But after several minutes, it dawned on me. It doesn’t need to be my end that’s near. That thought gave me the first slice of hope I’d had in a long time. No matter how slim it was, there was still a chance to triumph if we stick together. And that meant all of us.

  Mainstream Static

  Months earlier…

  Sunday, June 7, 1987

  Eighty-seven minutes is like gnawing on the rotting carcass of the night. That’s all the sleep I’d get if I crashed this instant, and I would give my left nut for that morsel. Like most Sunday nights, though, I’ll probably end up with a whole lot of nothing.

  One restless hour turns into many as I squirm non-stop on the mattress looking in vain for a comfy place to park my limbs. It’s torture, pure torture. The carpet of nighttime clatter only exacerbates my woes: a creak here and a tick-tock there, the on/off clickety clack of the yard sale fridge, and my own pulse rapping inside my skull. Sometimes, I almost make it. My body calms, and I drift into a quiet abyss of solace. My breathing is shallow…muscles flaccid…I’m about to cross over…and wham. Tires screech, a Maine coon in heat yowls like a teething babe or maybe it’s a Boeing 747, roaring overhead, that pulls me further from my awaiting dreams and pushes me farther down a path, on which hope seems just a fleeting concept.

  When those first strands of morning light catch me through the blinds, I’m bound to be a wreck. Heart knocking, as if short a cylinder. Skin, like waterlogged neoprene draped over old bones. Eyes strained, full of despair and longing to succumb to the night’s unachievable. It’s a tiredness like no other: the kind of tiredness that results from countless attempts to flee into the refuge of sleep but instead of nodding off, getting up at dawn without one single wink. Shower, coffee, slow roll to the office, more coffee, endless to dos, even more coffee, customer calls and written reminders, unwanted interference from faceless owners, and the boss being the dick he is rounds out my misery. Finally, after punching out, I pray to make it home without falling into the sweet coma that eluded me the night before.

  It’s 5:48 a.m., and thinking about the alarm jarring me out of bed in just over an hour makes me tremble even harder. If I don’t put down this pen and at least try once more, I might as well give up for good. It’s either that or I hang myself.

  Monday, June 8, 1987

  “Moore? Moore? You pay that invoice from Global Goods?”

  “You said to pay it on the fourteenth, Mr. Carney. Today’s only the eighth.”

  “Well, now, I’m telling you to pay it now.”

  “Fine. Right after I send this bill to Nomad Gifts.”

  “Excuse me, Moore, but which three letters of now don’t you understand? I said now, and I mean now.”

  Those were the first words I’d heard from a live person today. Not ‘good morning’, or ‘how was your weekend?’ Nope. Those were the exact words. I didn’t get those scraps of shuteye I was desperate for last night either. The last time I looked at the clock, I heard the first commuters whiz by my house accompanied by a dawn chorus of nesting robins. It was approaching 6:15 a.m.

  Despite all the coffee corner chitchat, the bustle of gung-ho staff, and an occasional gleeful hummer, the office seemed bleak as always. The building, an almost windowless, rusty structure with industrial carpet and painted in suicide-grey, has as much charm as a Mexican jailhouse. I hunkered down in my second-rate cubicle, a shoddy desktop and chair pinched between four makeshift walls and besides lunch with Amy, dodged the rest of my coworkers. Everyone knows my issue and leaves me be on Mondays, except for Carney, the crudest of bosses ever. He’s an even bigger jerk than on other days and piles me up with a desk-full of crappy work to get my week off to a shitty start. I lack the strength to fight back, so I give in to his tyranny and make sure I’m out of there not a second past shift’s end. On days like today, though, the standard eight hours feel more like eighteen and the clock seems to want to make up for the restless spell that zipped by in the night through its hesitant second hand, stubborn little hand and almost frozen big hand. At least it’s over now, and I can get psyched up for the rest of the week. Big gig in Providence this Frida
y. At the Showroom, a wicked cool club.

  Sunday, June 14, 1987

  “What a night, people.” I peered out at the roomful of eyes staring back at me. Their heads bobbed like happy apples crammed into an Olympic-sized pool. Sweat gushed from my pores but not from burning it up on stage. It was as if the crowd’s and Four-n-Moore’s energy melded into a feedback loop of kinetic frenzy that set the whole place ablaze and sent my temperature soaring. The multi-colored spotlights aimed at the swarm of buoyant faces revealed a patchwork of delight as they hollered a symphony of ecstatic affirmations.

  “More, Moore, more, Moore,” they chanted. Ironically, these were the same sounding words Carney barked at me Monday morning, but it was so different. Then they started in with, “Moore, Stevie, Moore, Stevie, Moore, Stevie.” On and on it went. The five of us stood there beaming, as if we were toddlers coming off a kiddie ride at a fun park. We relished the feeling some before I started it up again.

  “Thank you, Providence.” I let the roar of the room swell and taper off before continuing. “We’ll give you one more, but after this one, there’s absolutely nothing we can play to top it. Before we go and since there’s five of us, I’d like to give a shout out to the rest of the band.”

  The other guys had already started grooving out as a set up for the introductions.

  “Piano Mike on keys.”

  Mike hammered out a cool lick to show off his chops.

  “Tommy on bass guitar.”

  Tommy grabbed onto Mike’s part, leaning into it with his burly frame and transformed the piece into a seamlessly integrated piano/bass solo.

  “Dale on drums.”

  Dale, the broad-shouldered Adonis with a preference for tank tops over t-shirts, synched in with the other two. His eagle-blond, feathered hair swung with every stick hit, and he looked intimidating. The gathering tension was the ultimate segue into my next introduction.

  “And the man who needs no intro but gets one anyway…Stevie the guitar maestro, persona ultra grata.”

  Stevie stepped up to the front of the stage. His elongated stick frame appeared twice its actual size and the spotlight danced off his springy yellow curls. He threw it into overdrive and swayed like a proud Elm in a flurry. We let the tension build, and when the time was right, I added myself as the last ingredient to the dish.

  “I’m Luke. We’re Four-n-Moore with a capital F. And you rock. This is for you. We love you…a whole lot.” I jacked up the distortion and blasted out the opening of “Whole Lotta Love” from Led Zeppelin, a cover, which we sporadically throw into our sets.

  Everyone in the band nailed their cue and clobbered the rest of the song. The five of us persevered for a good twenty minutes, which felt like both an eternity and the blink of an eye. Stevie shined the brightest, as always, with his exceptional yet tasty soling, capturing the spotlight from the buildup to the climax, and all the way through to the finale.

  I thought that the audience was zapped out for good as we laid down our instruments. But after the last chord was left to ring out and we had cut out backstage, the fans were still going wild as the crunch reverberating from the amplifiers finally sizzled out. The Four immediately wanted to give them another. Instinct told me to hold back. If they wanted more, they’ll be at the next show. Besides, there was no way we could top that encore. We stuck it out in the back, sprawled out on the red velvet upholstered furniture, set beneath the grandest of chandeliers. After we finished soaking in the crowd’s praise, I signaled the bartender via the intercom to put on the house music. The celebration for us hadn’t begun yet, and we needed some down time to tidy up and regroup.

  “Awesome. You guys, I mean,” I said, giving kudos to the others. I got up off the chaise lounge and wandered around the industrial-red-bricked-room, airing myself out. “Considering how drenched my t-shirt is, I must have been hot too.”

  “Toast of the town, buddy,” Dale said. “The real deal like always.”

  Stevie rolled off the couch where he was kicking back and tottered over. He attempted to man-hug me from a distance, but you could have fit a half-keg of Budweiser between us. “Guitar playing’s coming along,” he said, spilling his words like a gentle drunk.

  “Thanks, man. Practice makes perfect. Right?”

  “Supposed to.” His dopey cheer curdled, and all emotion drained down his neck. “What about your singing then?”

  I furrowed my brow. “My singing?”

  “You know. Practice makes perfect.”

  “What about it?”

  “Kind of sucked tonight,” he said. His expression was like wood.

  I looked over at the others. “My singing sucked?”

  “Not great,” Tommy said.

  “You’ve done better,” Mike replied.

  Dale only simulated a whistle as his gaze meandered along the edge of the ceiling.

  I stood there opened mouthed before turning back to Stevie. He was already grinning, showing both rows of teeth. “Got-cha,” he said, as if talking in slow-mo and sniggered in his typical understated manner. “You rocked.”

  They all burst out laughing.

  “Stevie, you turd,” I yelled. “Who gave you permission to be funny?”

  I punched his right arm, enough for him to feel it but not enough to hurt. I latched onto his wiry torso and bear-hugged him until his Adam’s Apple tomahawked my right eye. The slight jolt of pain caused my grip to loosen, and he wiggled away, burying himself amongst the others. I snatched him from within the pile, and we both giggled like chicks in a hen pen. All of us were giddy at that point, high-fiving in every direction and generously paying each other tribute.

  Once the excitement died down, I gazed over at Mike and had to smirk. His lackluster raven hair, mid-length with an overzealous cowlick forming a Quiff, was in disarray, while his black horn-rimmed glasses sat crooked on his nose. With the inconspicuous face of a dweeb that’d be difficult to recall even after a third introduction, his looks weren’t typical for a rocker.

  “Yo, Mike,” I said. “What was that duo thing you and Tommy started at the end, during the intros? You write that?”

  “We have tricks up our sleeves too,” Mike said, sounding more like a brat than a rebel.

  I nodded in agreement, pleased that someone else took initiative. “Loved it. Felt spontaneous.” Then I broke into one of my occasional rants. “Bands that practice every note are boring, predictable. Four-n-Moore fans love how we wing it and could care less about perfection. So, why not go for it. If someone screws up, ain’t nothing a good laugh won’t cure.”

  “Laugh?” Mike said, souring up. “Like it’s a joke?”

  “What’s so bad about an off note?” I asked. “Ever listen to jazz? Besides, you’re not dazzling anyone if you don’t get up on the high wire and take a chance. Tonight, we delivered like a bullet, all of us, and…”

  Mike stood there with his scrawny arms crossed and shoulders hunched, brooding. “You compose those words of wisdom, Mozart, or make them up on the spot?”

  My eyes floated almost cross-eyed beneath their lids as I sucked in a calming lot of air. “What’s to make up, Mike? It’s real. Hear them out there? They wanted us to play all night, for them, not play with ourselves like you want to do.”

  “Hey, I take my piano seriously. That’s how Mrs. Chin groomed me. That old lady slammed my wrists with a chop stick for even the smallest mistake. So I…”

  “So what?” I asked, interrupting. “You take your childhood spankings out on us?”

  “Take what out on you? I’m not…” Mike must have noticed the other sets of eyeballs rolled up high in their sockets and recoiled to a space on the couch near Dale. After a contemplative quarter-minute, he spoke up. “Ok, maybe you’re right about one thing. I could focus more on the big picture. That doesn’t mean I should compromise my playing. Right?”

  “It doesn�
��t even matter if you suck, Mike,” Dale said. “Nobody pays attention to what you play anyway.”

  Mike gave Dale the evil eye until Dale, chuckling, wrapped his beefy arm around Mike’s delicate shoulders and squeezed. “Only kidding, buddy, only kidding,” Dale said. “Don’t start crying now, ok. Need a tissue?” He let Mike go, tousling his hair, and the atmosphere relaxed.

  Tommy seized that break in action and plodded over all fidgety. His hairdo looked like a neglected bush the color of straw and apart from the Dutch Boy bangs, drooped sadly over his shoulders. “When should we get the party started? Tina’s outside with a couple girlfriends, and they want to score free drinks.

  “Give me five to wash up and change, and we can open up the flood gates.”

  Besides the roomy yet down home feel, impeccable sound and posh surroundings of the main hall, the best part about the Showroom is the after-party in the back. Most establishments have a smutty, cramped room where they stick the bands with greasy chips, boiled dogs and a case of cheap canned beer. The Showroom prides itself on taking care of its entertainers with a plush, oversized backstage area, a generous allotment of drinks for the band and entourage, bottomless trays of finger food and the possibility to invite select guests to join the private festivities. The roaring 20s saloon-style backroom bar is a real showpiece and a true pleasure to sit at, with its vast quantities of fluorescently lit bottles of top shelf alcohol serving as a backdrop to bolster good conversation.

  Between us, some friends, fellow musicians and scene makers, Craig the owner, privileged staff and a couple of hand picks from the crowd, we numbered about fifty. And what a bash it was. Everybody treated us like royalty, and we were inundated with a flurry of compliments. Both the super fans plus some of the newly converted showered us with oodles of accolades. Many friends and credible members of the 4nM family hailed it as our best show to date. The biggest honor was to have Craig, a compact, fast-talker with slick-backed hair and a signature pinstripe blazer, tell me that our ‘performance was stellar’ and that ‘they’d always have a slot for us to play there whenever we wanted’. It blew me away considering the quality of the bands that gig at the Showroom: nationwide acts and stars of the trade. And Craig tells me that they’d always have a spot for us, a little ole’ band from Cumberland, Rhode Island. That was something alright.