by P G Loiselle
After stowing the motorcycle in the bed of the Ford truck, I joined Mike in the cab, and we headed to a Dunkin Donuts off Route 295 to get our early morning coffee and a newspaper, the Providence Journal. Christina wasn’t lying about the article, and it was written exactly as in the copy she had given me. Following our pit-stop, we drove towards Greenville for a mere couple-hundred-feet before Mike swerved onto a dirt road that meandered beneath the electricity powerlines.
“What’s going on, Mike?”
“You’ll see.” He pulled to the side and turned off the engine. My face must have been one big question mark. “Might as well get out,” he said. I was confused but did as he told me. We both walked up to the front of the truck, leaned against the grill and sipped our hot brew.
Within minutes, the rumble of a motorcycle with balls could be heard from a distance. I looked at Mike and he grinned. The warm revving sound of the muffler edged ever closer, and a trail of dust advanced towards us along the powerline like the drawing-stroke of an Etch-A-Sketch. It could only have been one person, Dale, on his chopper.
I was both nervous and excited. The last time we talked, he seemed to have given up on me. When he touched down, he set the bike twenty paces away, rested against the spring-mounted leather seat and folded his arms. I raised myself up and scuffled halfway towards him.
“Hey,” I said. Instead of answering, Dale moseyed over and smiled. He hit me solid in the arm and chuckled a certain way, signaling that everything was cool between us. I was so relieved, and there wasn’t even any teary-eyed make-up session that we had to endure.
“Let’s go, sissy boys,” Mike yelled, interrupting our moment. “We have a date.” Dale and I both laughed, astounded at Mike’s brash vernacular.
“Have room for me, Dale?” I asked.
“Grab your hardhat. We’ve got work to do.”
We got back on the road and continued in a convoy. Shortly before reaching the lakeside house, I felt anxious, more like nauseous. It had only been a little more than a week since my falling out with Amy and Stevie at the fort, although it seemed like a lifetime. There was Amy’s letter, but I still wasn’t sure how I was supposed to act with them.
To get to the property, we diverted from the main route, passed an apple orchard and made several turns until we ended up on a dirt road. We followed it to the end until Dale hit the kill-switch, and we rolled the last couple of yards into the driveway of a quaint house nestled in a grove of maples along the waterfront. We both dismounted and ripped off our helmets. Mike was already out of the truck.
“You squeezed the shit out of me,” Dale said. His head was red and sweaty. “Don’t you know how to hold on?”
“Sorry, it’s just. I just…”
The screen door burst open. “Luke,” Amy yelled. She raced out of the cottage and engulfed me in her arms. “I missed you so much,” she said. Stevie must have been on the boat dock and ran over to join in the embrace. We were a trio again, and it was heaven. I didn’t even have time to be nervous. Our foreheads met at the peaks, forming a triangle, and we laughed without silliness. It was obvious how united we were, and any differences we may still need to reconcile seemed inconsequential.
“Missed you, my friend,” Stevie said.
“You have no idea how much I missed the both of you,” I said as the three of us split apart. “And how sorry I am. My stupid, frickin’ ego got the best of me and it almost ruined everything.”
“It was all my fault,” Amy said. “What a naive, selfish bitch I was. I risked everything to go after some slimebag who killed my father decades ago and put everyone in danger. For what? You’re right, Luke. Getting Stone won’t bring anyone back.”
“No, you’re right, Amy,” I said. “Justice is worth everything. Like you said, the terror won’t stop. When Stone’s too old and out of the picture, Herbie will take over and so on, and so on…” I looked over at Stevie, thinking about the latest victims. “Mike told you, right?”
“Told me what?” I looked over at Mike, and he threw up his hands.
Still facing Stevie, I clasped his shoulders and applied gentle pressure. “Your father… They…they burned his house down.” I clenched his shirt and tugged him closer. “He’s safe…with your Aunt Rachael. I brought him there myself.”
“What are you talking about?” He shoved me away, looking at me as if I were the arsonist.
“I’m sorry,” I said and latched back onto him. He resisted my pull, but I refused to let him go. “Noodle didn’t make it out.”
“It’s not true,” he yelled and sprayed my face with a mist of spit. “Tell me it’s not true.” I only squeezed harder and pulled his head down to the side of my neck for him to weep into. He howled as a shower of tears poured from his eyes. Amy wrapped her arms around us again, and together, we all cried oceans. She whispered countless lines and private messages of solace into Stevie’s ear over a long period of mourning. Eventually, his hard cries turned to soft whimpers and then to calm breathing. Amy never stopped coaching his feelings. Once the heavy emotions subsided, she resumed the talk with all of us.
“Look,” she said. “We’ve been through so much these past couple of months, and we’re so close to getting Stone…so close…and closer to each other. Don’t know how you two did it, but you cracked open this frickin’ shell I’ve built up around me ever since Serge died, and I feel…I feel freed from the hate I had for Joey da Silva, that stinking douchebag. No matter what happens at this point, I refuse to let anyone else rule my life. It might suck sometimes, but it’s short enough as it is. I love you both for that. I really do…in different ways, of course.”
“And I love you,” Stevie said and gave her a deep lover’s kiss that made everyone smile.
“Words worth repeating,” I said and sighed. “You know I love you too, Amy…like my favorite sister, who can be a pain in the ass sometimes, or a gutsy version of the person I’d like to be. Look what you started. All those people Stone bullied over the years. You have him on the ropes, and he’s swinging. You can have your cake and eat it. It’s time for a showdown, Amy, and there’s no reason why we can’t beat them.”
I looked over at Dale, who had returned from a dip in the lake and already seemed bored with the rhetoric, and at Mike, who had melted into a folding director’s chair when we arrived and hadn’t budged.
“Let’s have Amy hear it. We all in?” Right when I said it, an old brown station wagon with a fiberglass, wood-look trim came rolling down the dusty road and into the driveway. It was Tommy, daddy-to-be, in his new family-mobile. Everyone cheered and received Tommy as though he were king. We were complete, and the clock was ticking.
By sunset, most of the details were sketched out, but now comes the hard part. Organizing the occasion and mobilizing our allies by Friday will be a tremendous undertaking. We’ll use the lakeside house as basecamp since going home is too risky. Even Tommy can stay; Tina’s spending the time on Cape Cod with her parents.
We decided that The Showroom, with its generous backstage area, would be the perfect location for the finale. The way Craig cut ties with us, we weren’t exactly sure how to convince him to let us hold the event in his club. We did have a million reasons why someone might help us and would have to part with some of them to get Craig to agree.
The biggest debate, however, revolved around getting Stone to show up to our special event. We didn’t want simply anyone from his organization to end up in jail. It had to be Stone who would squander the rest of his days in a cold cell reflecting upon all those lives he’d destroyed. Thankfully, the idea of how to get him to go on Friday came from Amy because if I had brought it up, it would have been rejected. It started with a simple question.
Why not invite him like we were going to do with the other guests that were on our mailing list? He wouldn’t get an invitation personally but would accompany his niece, Christina, our biggest fan. If C
hristina was serious about lending us a hand, she’d have to play along and agree to invite her uncle. The only information she’d get is that her uncle unequivocally must come with her, and she couldn’t mention a word of our personal contact. We’d do the rest. What reason would her uncle have to say no, especially after he hears “the word” on the street, which we would spread ourselves to his whisperers, about what we were plotting to do? If Christina double-crosses us, Mike and I have an emergency plan B to at least try to ensure everyone’s safety.
Tomorrow, I’ll start with Craig and then contact Christina. The invitations can only be printed after we secure the location, and they would need to be hand delivered to make sure everyone gets the info well in advance of Friday. There’s so little time, so much to do and now that the plans are set in motion, so much to pray for.
This may very well be the last entry of this journal. Despite the precautions we’re taking, it is possible that I don’t make it back to document the outcome. At least I was able to stay sane by chronicling my journey within the last few months and can only hope that further on down the line, I’ll be able to continue with what’s still to come.
Encore
Thursday, August 27, 1987
It was only minutes after arriving from the hospital and I already booted the welcoming committee out of my house. Everyone must have attributed my eagerness to be alone to the fact that I was still whacked out on pain pills. I had other motives. The story has been swirling around my mind; getting it down on paper as soon as possible should help me sort out the facts from fiction.
Here, at least, is my current version of what happened.
Instead of phoning up Craig last Wednesday to inquire about using The Showroom, Mike and I took a ride there with ten-grand stuffed in our pockets, figuring that it would be easier to convince him in person. Craig required twice that amount as an incentive to let us have the club, on top of playing for free. What a sellout, I thought, but was happy we could shake hands on the deal. I insisted on a contract, and for that sum of money, the greedy bastard would have signed away his children to a gypsy circus.
The next challenge would be Christina. Without her involvement, we couldn’t lure Stone to the show and might as well call it off. I dialed the number scribbled on the paper she gave me. After about five rings, the answering machine picked up, and I was instructed to leave a message.
“Hi Christina. This is Luke Moore calling. I wanted to thank you for the piece you wrote for the Providence Journal and get back to you on your offer to…”
“Luke,” she said, picking up.
“Oh, you’re there. Sorry to bother. I wanted to thank you for your article in the paper.”
“I have to say, I’m surprised. After meeting at that bar, I didn’t think you’d ever want to talk to me again.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. I was in the dumps and mad at the world. And not knowing the Ashley story made me feel like a fool.”
“I didn’t mean to, you know, make you feel like that. And am so, so sorry. The full truth is, I want to be an actress someday. Trying to pull off the English Ashley is always tempting. If I can do it in real life, why not onscreen?”
“I guess I’m the same way on stage, being someone who I’m not necessarily in real life.”
“You saw the article then,” she said. “We don’t usually get the Journal up here in Boston. I did find a copy at a local press shop and was relieved to see it published. I called up the editor last night. He said that it started a big controversy on whether the East Side Edition should have published the article without verifying the facts. The Journal’s going to do a follow-up piece and I hope the Edition’ll run into some legal problems, that Scheister character too.”
“As long as people realize that we’re a decent bunch of musicians and aren’t out to rape and pillage, I’ll be happy. As far as the tour with Aerosmith, what can we do but hope for another big break at some point.”
“And what about my offer? You mentioned it on the answering machine. Go to court because of my brother, you mean?”
“Not exactly. I meant the offer to help us, Four-n-Moore. You see, we’re throwing a special party, a secret party for all the fans, including you, and we really want your Uncle Joe to be there.”
“Uncle Joe? Why do you want him there?”
“Well, you said he’s a fan, and he is a businessman, right?”
“But why him. Why not my dad?”
“Honestly, it’s complicated, and I can’t get into it. It’s got to be your Uncle Joe and not your dad. Please trust me on this.” There was no reaction. “I’m trusting you, aren’t I? I promise, we’re not planning on doing anything wrong. We’re the good guys, Christina. That hopefully counts for something these days.”
“Being the good guys counts for everything,” she said. “I still don’t understand what it has to do with my Uncle Joe.”
“It’s a long story. I won’t steer you wrong. Just trust me. That’s all I ask.”
“What do you want me to do?” she asked.
I told her about the party and the secret code to get in and that each person with an invitation would be allowed one guest. She was to call her uncle and give him first dibs. If he didn’t want to go, she’d tell him that she already offered the spot to a friend as second choice. She had to promise not to tell a soul about any contact with me, and she’d need to let me know by Thursday if he wasn’t coming. I told her the code word and gave her The Showroom address. In addition, as soon as the invitations were ready, I’d send her one by express courier. Christina agreed to all of it, even my offer to take her to dinner as a gesture of gratitude for her help.
By the time D-Day rolled around, we had doled out two hundred official invites and recruited eighteen close friends to assist with the bad guys. Two of those friends would keep constant tabs on Stone, watching his every move; the others would be on the lookout for Herbie, Rodney or anyone else that looked suspicious. Four of them were equipped with hard to see communication headsets, the kind with an earpiece and mini-microphone used by the secret service, to keep us informed with what was going on out there. Each of us in the band plus Amy had the same devices so we could converse ten-ways. The doors were scheduled to open at eight sharp, and we were to go on at about nine-thirty, taking a break at eleven before our encore. According to the invitation, the fans could party with us all night long and should expect some special announcements. We didn’t know when Stone would strike or how many of his men he’d be able to sneak in, so we needed to be in high security lockdown until we were ready. There were two doors that led to the backstage area, one from the stage itself and the other from the main hall of the club. Both doors were secured by heavy duty locks to retain the artists’ privacy. Moreover, there was an emergency fire exit in the back that could only be accessed from the inside. When opened, it would set off an alarm and according to Craig, would also emit a signal for emergency crews to come.
The main doors to the club opened on time, but the fans only trickled in considering the single line for added control and the necessity for all passwords to be authenticated and crossed referenced to the master list in a rather arduous process. We didn’t want the party to be overrun by Stone’s troops after all. To set the mood, the inside of the club was decorated with grand banners displaying Four-n-Moore’s logo, and augmented by a battery of spot and laser lights and other aural highlights. Besides that, hard rock music was pumped over the sound system to further help ready the crowd.
Only Mike, Dale and I loitered around the stage in the main room, semi-concealed behind the curtains, whereas Stevie, Tommy and Amy were holding out in the back. The complimentary beer for the first hour, paid for with Stone’s money, sent most people straight to the bar as soon as they were in. I started to doubt that they would come, but right before nine, our lookouts informed us through the earpieces that the pair had entered the main hall. I spot
ted them immediately. Christina looked remarkable, exquisitely dressed and radiating almost supernatural beauty, which made it hard for me to take my eyes off her. Stone, the big human bowling pin, was dapped out in a mix and match plaid suit from the sixties, a yellowy orange color clash that would blind even Medusa.
It was Christina who led her uncle around, him being certainly out of place amongst all that youth. Seeing the room fill up gave me the jitters. Besides laying a trap for Stone, we also had a concert to give, and this could be the final bow for Four-n-Moore.
The pre-set music got louder and heavier, and the tension was building. We only had half an hour before we took the stage, and I slipped into the back to calm my nerves with a cold one and to do my usual warm-up routine. As always, I started picking “I’d love to Change the World” on the guitar and slowly made my way through several classic rock evergreens before getting to Page and Plant’s “Thank You”. Stevie came over in the middle of my session and jammed with me. One-by-one, Tommy, Mike and Dale joined in and sang along. We were about to risk it all to beat a criminal so that justice could be served and were crooning the ballad, each of us with half-moon-sized smiles, like we all had a lot to be thankful for.
Craig, who also had a key to the back, slinked in and gave us the five-minute warning. It was time to do what we did best as a band and rock the club to pieces. We got into a huddle, and I spared them the usual discourse. Instead, we stood, hunched in a circle, arms outstretched over each other shoulders, heads together acting punch-drunk, and relished the chanting outside for Four-n-Moore.
When all was set to go, we manned our places onstage and without any introduction, the curtains were drawn back, and we slammed them with the first song. The packed house whooped in jubilation, letting us know how ecstatic they were to have us back. We were exonerated, and it was clear that Fango and his slutty surrogate writer, Devon Scheister, had no power over us. With each subsequent tune, we ratcheted up the intensity, and our fans did the same.
