Chase to the Encore

by P G Loiselle

  I rotated in my stool towards her and sat proud. “Well, guess what, you ruined my life, and you’re right. I don’t like who you really are.”

  “I didn’t expect to come here and have you fall all over me,” she said. “I can only imagine what happened to you; that horrible story was all over the news. I only want you to know the truth of what happened.”

  “Why would I believe anything you say at this point?”

  “I can understand why you wouldn’t. Please, hear me out. It was my big brother, Denis, who drugged you. You know him as Fango, the singer for Fast.Fun!.

  “Fango? Your brother?” I was shocked yet wary of her claim.

  “What a jerk,” she said. “He also drugged me that night. Woke up in the morning, fully dressed and thrown on the bed of some hotel room. I felt so ill and thought you had something to do with it. A friend of mine from Boston picked me up. She urged me to go to the police to press charges, but I only wanted to get home. I was so angry with you. I didn’t think you were the type of guy to do that kind of thing.” A succession of tears flowed down her cheeks without any other signs of a cry. “When the newspaper article about you came out a few days later, it totally shook me up. The whole time, I blamed you, but you were a victim yourself. So, I went back to the club with that same friend and talked to the staff. We weren’t getting anywhere until this one guy gave us a clue. He didn’t know personally who did it. He only asked us who was most likely pissed off about Four-n-Moore winning the Battle of the Bands. The answer was so obvious, especially after that scene at Rocky Point. I went to my brother’s apartment and confronted him on the spot. At first, he didn’t admit it. He only snickered. But I badgered it out of him. He thought I’d accept it and stand by him since we’re blood, as he said. I kicked him in the groin as hard as I could and stormed out. Haven’t seen him since.”

  “And I should believe that?” I said, as though I doubted every word. Something in me, though, wanted it to be the truth.

  “Here, maybe this might convince you.”

  “What’s this?”

  “An article I wrote for the Providence Journal. It’ll be featured tomorrow on page one of the Entertainment section; they promised a teaser on the front page of the paper to highlight the piece.”

  I took the loose pages out of her hand and started reading.

  ‘Four-n-Moore –

  The Truth about my All-time Favorite Band

  by

  Christina White-Souza

  I was so excited to be there on that Saturday. My all-time favorite band, Four-n-Moore, had won a contest, a battle of sorts, against none other than my brother’s band, Fast.Fun!. For winning, they were going on tour with Aerosmith.

  Getting tickets to the 94 WHJY sponsored event, the send-off party as they called it, wasn’t easy for the average Jane, but I had the best connection you could possibly have. My dad, a well-known concert promoter, made one simple call, and I was on the VIP list.

  I had met the band members once before when I chauffeured them to a concert my dad helped organize at Faneuil Hall in Boston, and it was love at first sight.

  My brother, having the same connection as I did, and not to mention a song on the Indie charts, was headliner at the same music festival. When my brother’s band played their set, it seemed to put a damper on the whole mood of the event. Their music, along with their attitude, was a real downer. That’s why it was strange for me to read an article a few days later, written by an obscure character, Devon Scheister, tearing apart Four-n-Moore’s performance, while praising my brother and his band. I didn’t think anything of it at the time and chalked it up to me having ringside seats and not being in the thick of things out in the crowd, where the perspective might have been different.

  I have since been to every concert that Four-n-Moore has put on and am without a doubt their most avid follower, routing for them every step of the way. The send-off party for the Aerosmith tour, which took place at JR’s Fastlane, a well-known Providence music club, was no different. Every note of theirs, every spoken or sung word, captivated me. You could only imagine how speechless I was when I met Luke Moore, the singer and brainchild of the band, on the dance floor. He zeroed in on me right away, and we danced. I was in seventh heaven.

  I thought that would be the end of it and already couldn’t wait for their next Providence concert, in the Civic Center no less, backing up Aerosmith, but it got even better. In the middle of their final encore, Luke came to the front of the stage to greet the audience. As he lowered his hand down to the crowd while passing by, I had only planned to touch it like everyone else. Before I knew it, I was somehow trajected onto the stage and stood right in front of him. He literally swept me off my feet. After he moved along to finish up the song, I retreated back into the audience and waited patiently for him to come see me after the show.’

  We found an intimate table and ordered the last drinks of the evening. I knew that he needed to be on the road early the next day and didn’t expect much. What I didn’t expect was to wake up in some hotel room the next morning with total amnesia, thinking that Mr. Luke Moore slipped something in my drink and took advantage of me. When I saw the nasty newspaper article in the East Side Edition written about Luke, by none other than Devon Scheister, that awful picture accompanying the piece left no doubt in my mind that someone had put something in his drink too. He looked far too gone to be the aggressor.

  After an inquiry at the club in Providence, all fingers pointed to my brother, Denis Souza, the infamous Fango from Fast.Fun!. Who else would have had a reason to ruin the chances of five young musicians in fulfilling their dreams? It could only be the losers. My brother Denis, the biggest loser of them all, proudly confessed to the act and should be ashamed of himself for what he did to me, to Luke Moore and to my all-time favorite band, Four-n-Moore. Not only does my brother need to find a new family who would accept that kind of behavior and pay for his legal bills once this story gets out, he also needs to find a new record label (thanks Dad for kicking him out of yours). For fans of Four-n-Moore like me, please don’t stop believing in them. They may be down right now, but they’re certainly not out, not with the talent they have and ability to inspire.

  p.s.: You better be careful, Mr. Scheister. Even a minor case of the SLANDER might put an abrupt end to your writing career. All eyes are watching you.’

  “This is going to be published tomorrow?” I asked. “What’s your Uncle Stone, I mean, Uncle Joey going to say?”

  “Uncle Joe? What’s he got to do with this?”

  “Didn’t he put your brother up to it?”

  “I have no clue what you’re talking about,” she said. “First of all, he knows I love you guys. The last couple of times I saw my Uncle Joe, we talked about you.” She blushed like a school girl. “The band I mean. He saw you play live too, at Rocky Point, and thought you were fantastic. Besides, why would he be involved in Denis’s struggles with you? He’s a businessman, import/export or something like that and would never get involved in such a dirty trick.”

  “Businessman, huh? I think dirty is his business.”

  “Look, I don’t know what Uncle Joe does exactly. My father moved up to Boston from Florida right before I joined him. My father and my uncle barely even knew each other. It’s some long family story that I was kept in the dark about. My father and him only started talking to each other when my vovo, my grandmother, died a couple years ago. We’re not that close. We usually only see them at family gatherings.”

  “And Herbie?” I asked.

  “My cousin, Herbert? Why are you bringing his name up now? You think he’s involved too? Look, I came here to do nothing else than tell you what happened to me and that you could read all about it in the Providence Journal tomorrow. And now you start coming up with some weird accusations concerning my Uncle Joe and cousin Herbert.”

  “I can’t tell what you know or don’t
know. If you are in any way involved in what’s going on, you’re not going to fool me again. If it’s all like you say it is, then it’s best you stay out of it.”

  “I’m sorry. I just can’t follow you. The copy of the article’s for you, but it’ll be in the paper tomorrow, too, for all of Rhode Island to read. Hopefully, it helps clear your name and reputation. Here’s my number,” she said as she wrote it on the back of the article. “If you want to press charges and need a witness, don’t hesitate to call. I’ll back you up 100%. Brother or no brother, I’m on the side of justice. Oh, and once you’re back on your feet as a band, I could also set you up with my dad if you’re looking for some professional help in the music industry.” She stood up and glared straight into my eyes. “Goodbye, Luke,” she said and touched my shoulder before walking out with her head down.

  Don came running over. “That her. That her, Luke.”

  “That’s who? I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “That the girl I tells you about. She be jumping on that guy’s back. What his name? Bambo or something like that?”

  “Fango?”

  “Yeah, that be him. At the park with all them rides. She be dancing like crazy, that pretty girl, and when that man chase after you, she jump on his back and attack him until one of them scallywags peel her off. What she doing here? Big fan? She fancy you, don’t she?”

  I was so torn inside, and before I could even comment, Mike swished through the door and joined us. Don, who already knew mostly everything, brought some fresh drinks and left us alone.

  “You’re here early, Mike.”

  “I guessed you’d already be here, and there’s probably lots to discuss.”

  “More than you think,” I said. “Much more.”

  I told him everything: the attack of the newspaper reporters and the new picture in the paper, my encounter with Devon Scheister, Fred and the loan, the discussion with Dale, Stone’s offer and sudden departure and, finally, Ashley White’s transformation into Christina Ashly White-Souza and the upcoming article.

  Mike told me that in the morning, Dale had been to the summer cottage, which is on the shores of Waterman Lake in Greenville, to see Amy and Stevie, and the three of them decided that we needed to trap Stone more sooner than later. They had a plan too, a solid idea, and for it to work, everyone needed to help. Everyone meant me too, and he handed me a note from Amy for me to read later, which I stuffed in my back pocket.

  Mike proceeded to tell me what they dreamed up; it seemed crazy, reckless and flat out dangerous. How could we protect ourselves? And I still didn’t understand how that was going to put Stone in jail. What would the crime be? How could we prove anything? I was totally against it at first until Mike gave me one more tidbit of information that only he was privy to; that made me think it could work. We’d need to move fast and tackle the details together. Stone gave us until Sunday to give him an answer on his offer, and since it would be a big NO, we had to strike first, and strike hard.

  While discussing the plan, sirens howled from a brigade of fire trucks, making it hard to talk. Every now and then, there’s a small blaze in town, and the volunteer firemen are gung-ho about putting out even the tiniest flicker. That’s why I didn’t think anything of it at first. Mid-sentence came a revelation: my house. Did Stone light my house on fire?

  “Mike, let’s go. I need to check something. I’ll explain on the way. Can you drive?”

  We turned onto my street, and everything was normal. In the distance, the sirens blared on and clouds of dark smoke billowed above the line of trees. It almost looked like it was somewhere in my old neighborhood where I lived with Stevie and his father. Another thought occurred to me.

  “Oh my God, Fred.”

  “Who?” Mike asked.

  “Stevie’s father. Come on.”

  We pulled the truck around and sped towards Fred’s house. The closer we got, the louder the sirens were, and the direr the situation appeared. The street he lived on was blocked off. We pulled to the side of the road and ran the rest of the way, ignoring warnings from the volunteer fire fighters. The house, a two-story Colonial, was a glowing inferno. It was impossible to get too close, and I thought my eyebrows were about to singe off. I ran around the perimeter looking for any signs of Fred and stayed a safe enough distance away from the giant, flaming box that was his house. An ambulance appeared on the scene and pulled into a driveway down the street. Fred, I thought. Maybe he was there? I huffed towards the rescue crew; they were stooped down, treating one of the wounded.

  “Fred,” I screamed. I forced my head into the circle of workers to see if it was him.

  “Luke.”

  I heard a call coming from the back. It was Fred hobbling towards me.

  “I’m here,” he said, yelling to me.

  Mike was behind him and must have found him first. We reached each other and fell into each other’s arms, both of us crying.

  “Thank God you’re ok.”

  “Went out to get a gallon of milk,” he said. “When I came back, the house was in flames. A neighbor already called the fire department, but it was too late.”

  “Who’s that hurt?” I asked.

  “The neighbor. He heard Noodle barking and wanted to get him out. Burned himself trying to open the door.”

  “What about Noodle? Where is he?” Instead of an answer, Fred grabbed onto me again and started wailing.

  Noodle, Fred’s Chinese pug, his closest companion had become Stone’s latest victim. I felt so horrible about all of this and couldn’t help thinking that I was partially to blame. If I had reacted differently to Stone, they wouldn’t have set fire to the house, and Fred’s best friend would still be alive.

  It took hours for them to get the blaze under control and secure the area. Mike and I stayed with Fred for the duration. Once the paperwork and other formalities were sorted, Mike drove us to The Corner to gather the Beast, and I brought Fred to his sister’s house since my place was too dangerous. His whole life had gone up in smoke in a matter of hours, and he was a mess. His sister and I carted him into the guest room and tucked him into bed. His eyes fell shut within seconds.

  Before attempting to sleep myself, I remembered the note from Amy and retrieved it out of my pocket. It wasn’t much, a short paragraph was all. But after reading that potent text about fifty times and overcoming my initial panic, I felt emboldened, emboldened to help end this lopsided match. ‘There’s only one way to settle this,’ she wrote. ‘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.’ Up until now, there were lots of scares; however, the danger never seemed so tangible. We were always able to escape Stone’s advances, almost like it was a game. Now, Noodle had been killed, and it could have been Fred. Who’d be next? Mike’s mother? Tommy’s wife?

  It’s more real than ever, and we need to act before any more damage is done. Tomorrow we’re going on the warpath to put a stop to Stone and his merciless bunch. We have no choice. It’s either them or us. And the end might really be near, for them.

  Tuesday, August 25

  Mike and I were scheduled to rendezvous by 9:00 a.m. at the Lincoln Lanes. As a precaution, he’d be transported in the back of a company truck, which we’d appropriate for our drive to the others. After literally setting our world on fire, Stone and his men could only imagine how we might be panicking. We weren’t panicking. We were clear-headed, razor-focused and determined not to lose.

  Like so many times before, I left through the backyard and darted off to the Suzuki parked on the street behind my house. I gave it a kickstart, but it wouldn’t fire up. It hadn’t run since Mike had his men bring it back from the fort. That’s when an odd feeling washed over me. I glanced behind and saw Rodney bounding up the street towards me like a raging gorilla. I pumped the choke to get more gas into the machine and kicked
and kicked. The engine only coughed and sputtered out. As he was almost upon me, I made a dash with the bike while holding in the clutch. My legs were scrambling, yet, like in a bad dream, I hardly felt as if I were moving. The Suzuki was heavy, and I quickly lost ground. Unable to gather more torque, I figured it was now or never. I hopped on, slammed it down into first gear, popped the clutch and jumpstarted the defiant motorcycle. In retaliation, it screamed away, yanking me with it, and almost popped a back-breaking wheelie.

  Rodney was so close that he scratched my neck with his claws before falling to the ground. A black sedan pulled to the side and yanked him into the back. I revved the throttle to the limit and hooked a left once I got to the main street. My pursuers were trailing and moving in. The Cumberland Police Department was coming up, and my first thought was to splash down there and bring myself to safety. Not knowing Stone’s connections or intentions, I decided against it. If this was another ploy to scare me into accepting his offer, getting the police involved would only hinder our attempts to end this game on our terms.

  The Cumberland Monastery was only a quarter mile further. I squealed by the police station without letting up on the gas, jetted into the monastery parking lot and disappeared into the woods, leaving the bad guys behind where the pavement ended. I maneuvered through the maze of trails and after a several-minute-run at foolhardy speeds, I ended up at Mendon Road like I’d done weeks prior under the cloak of darkness. A funeral procession going in my direction forced me to brake at a stop sign. My body throbbed as a rush of blood shot through every capillary, giving me a fresh boost of power along with a sense of triumph. I had to smile when a car-full of mourners drove by, and a young boy gave me a thumbs-up from the back seat. He looked happy to be alive. Once the line of cars had passed, I continued to the bowling alley and got there five minutes ahead of schedule.