Hang Time

by S. W. Lauden

“Jesus. Yes.”

  Greg leaned back against the headrest. He tried to make sense of it all, but his fatigued brain couldn’t process the information.

  “Did you see the body?”

  “What? Of course not. I was here when they called—”

  “When’s the last time you saw his little brother?

  “He was here last night. Why’s that matter?”

  Greg hung up, carefully climbing out of the van. He had to clean up before the rest of the band woke up. None of them needed to see him in his current state, especially Chris or Marco. He eased his shirt off, tossing it directly into a nearby dumpster. His suitcase felt heavy as he pulled it across the parking lot to the staircase.

  The ice machine clunked and chugged as he passed by on the way to his room. He pulled the key card from his pocket, inserting it into the slot. The lock wheezed open and he twisted the lever to go inside. It was the first time he’d seen it since checking in the night before. The perfectly-made bed looked inviting, but he had work to do if he wanted to survive the drive north. He pulled the comforter back and rumpled the sheets in case any visitors stopped by to check on him.

  Greg stripped down, taking his toiletry bag into the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror revealed a beaten man. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, recessed deep into his puffy face. A thick white crust caked the corners of his lips, a perfect match to the slimy coating on his tongue. He looked almost as disgusting as he felt, hating himself for wanting another drink. A glass of tap water and a couple of aspirin would have to do.

  The small shower smelled of mildew. Greg turned the hot water up until it scalded his skin, scrubbing every inch with sweet-smelling soap. He brushed his teeth, but decided not to shave in hopes the stubble would help hide his pasty skin. The mouthwash waited for him when he stepped out to dry off. He gargled twice and even swallowed a little for good measure. His reflection looked slightly better the next time he checked.

  Junior was waiting for him when he stepped out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. She sat on the edge of the bed, a cup of coffee in each hand.

  “I forgot to get you cream.”

  Greg took a cup, hoping she didn’t notice his shaking hand.

  “Thanks. Everything okay?”

  “Really hungover is all. Why didn’t you cut me off last night?”

  Greg managed a chuckle.

  “I didn’t want to ruin your vacation.”

  He smiled before taking a sip. She groaned, falling back onto the unused bed.

  “I feel like I owe you an apology for teasing you about the suicide, if that’s even what they were.”

  “Don’t worry about it. There’s still no way to know what’s really going on.”

  “But I am worried, Greg. I’m worried about Chris being on this tour with dead bodies showing up all over the place. And I’m worried about you.”

  Junior sat up, leaning back on her hands. Her eyes traced the tattoos on his chest for a moment before she turned her head.

  “You’re not looking so good. Get any sleep last night?”

  “Me? I tossed and turned a lot. Hoping to catch a nap in the van.”

  “That makes two of us. You thinking about canceling the rest of the tour?”

  That stopped Greg in his tracks.

  “Why? The cops all seems to think these are copycat suicides.”

  “What about you?”

  “My opinion doesn’t matter. The cops can solve their own cases.”

  She stood up and went for the door, turning back before stepping outside.

  “You’re starting to get a little gut. You should think about doing some sit-ups or something.”

  “Thanks for noticing.”

  Greg got dressed and went down to the van, opening all of the windows and doors. He found a pack of Jerry’s cigarettes and lit a few, letting them burn on the edges of empty soda cans. It wasn’t exactly incense, but it helped to cover the smell of vodka and vomit.

  h

  “This sucks, bro.”

  They were inching along in afternoon traffic through San Mateo. Marco sat in the passenger seat, his feet propped up on the dashboard. Greg drove again, gripping the wheel until his knuckles went white. He’d worn a baseball hat and wrap-around shades since they got in the van that morning. Nobody asked how he was feeling or made sarcastic comments about his profuse sweating, so Greg guessed he was in the clear. Just in time to start obsessing about his next drink.

  “Welcome to Northern California.”

  “Dude. This traffic is way worse than LA.”

  “Don’t let the locals hear you say that. The club’s only a few miles from here.”

  The Foggy Bottom stood in the Mission District, a punk landmark in a sea of burrito joints, craft beer bars, and funky coffee shops. Unlike in Santa Barbara, BCC had actually played this club on a few of their previous tours. They were mostly an opening act back then, in the days when punk shows featured anywhere from five to ten bands. Tonight they were headlining, with only two local acts on the bill before them. Greg didn’t plan to watch either of them.

  “Have you been thinking about what happened last night?”

  Marco looked over his shoulder. Everybody else either slept or had their headphones on. He kept his voice down anyway.

  “Like, non-stop. What the fuck’s going on?”

  “Police are calling it copycat suicides.”

  Marco exhaled loudly.

  “Yeah right, bro. Two shows and two stiffs ain’t some co-winky-dink.”

  “What if it happens again tonight?”

  “We need to make sure it doesn’t or this tour is dust.”

  “I’m more worried about finding another body.”

  “That makes two of us, bro.”

  The congestion eased up right before they reached their exit. Greg noticed a lot had changed since the last time he was there. Several of the pastel-colored apartment buildings enjoyed facelifts, and there were fewer empty storefronts. Fancy bakeries and vintage boutiques had replaced rundown liquor stores and junk shops. Taking a look at the teeming sidewalks, however, he noticed one thing that remained the same. Despite all of the cosmetic improvements, the army of junkies and homeless still ruled the streets of this hipster stronghold.

  Marco noticed them, too.

  “Always makes me wonder.”

  “What’s that?”

  “How I didn’t end up out there with them.”

  Greg knew what he meant. There were several years where he half expected to get the call from Officer Bob telling him Marco died. His friend seemed to plummet deeper into darkness every time Greg ran into him back then. And every time he would bounce back, only to go ever deeper. Things had spiraled much quicker with Tim.

  “Have you been keeping in touch with Gabriella?”

  “You know it.”

  Marco turned to look out the passenger window. Greg saw his smile in the reflection on the glass.

  “I’m impressed. Is it possible Marco Johnson might actually have gotten a girlfriend?”

  “Looks like it. About damn time, too.”

  They pulled up to the club. A series of orange cones had been placed along the curb out front. Everybody else in the van gathered their stuff and got out, leaving Greg alone with Marco.

  “You remember how to parallel park a van with a trailer?”

  “I could hotwire it, but not sure I could park it.”

  Marco rolled down his window, leaning out to take a look. His assessment of the situation was bleak.

  “We’ve basically got just enough room to fit, with an inch or two to wiggle. Let’s park somewhere else.”

  “We need to unload the gear, and load it back in at the end of the night. Not to mention what a nightmare it is to park in this town.”

  �
��In that case, you better get some KY. This is gonna be a tight squeeze.”

  Marco got out to move the cones. He lingered on the sidewalk, attempting to help Greg judge the angles. That meant flailing his arms and barking out indecipherable orders while Greg did a painful three-thousand-point turn. The wheels of the van and trailer were still a good foot-and-a-half from the curb, but they agreed it was close enough for rock and roll.

  He met Marco near the trailer door to open the replacement lock.

  “Go get everybody and let’s get loaded.”

  Bad choice of words, but Marco didn’t seem to notice. He disappeared inside, coming back out with JJ and Chris a few minutes later. They began picking gear off the pile Greg had started on the sidewalk.

  “Hey JJ, where’s Jerry?”

  “Says he’s too tired to lift anything right now.”

  “Tell him he doesn’t have a choice.”

  “Tell him yourself.”

  Greg knew it wasn’t a great idea to leave gear unattended in the Mission. He told Chris to hang back, grabbing two guitars to take into the club. The Foggy Bottom was much easier to maneuver than The Noise Chamber because of its shoebox shape, with the stage at the far end. You could only access the backstage area from a door behind the drum riser. There was a long hallway back there with the dressing room on one side and the bathroom on the other. An exit to the narrow back alley loomed beyond that.

  Greg set the guitars down and went looking for Jerry. He found him asleep on a long wooden bench that looked like a relic from a local church.

  Greg slapped him hard on the leg.

  “Get up. Time to bring the gear in.”

  Jerry swatted Greg’s hand away, rolling onto his side.

  “Fuck off.”

  He snored again in an instant. It could have been the hangover, or he might have finally snapped, but Greg grabbed the guitarist’s shirt and yanked him to his feet. Jerry’s red eyes shot open as he made a weak attempt at a punch. Greg responded with a shove, sending the guitarist to the floor in a heap.

  Greg spun at a noise behind him, ready to take on whoever was next. Junior and Tina gaped. He brought his hands down as the tour manager rushed over to nurse Jerry. She looked up at Greg, hatred in her eyes.

  “You could have killed him!”

  “Take it easy. I didn’t even hit him.”

  Greg turned to leave, but Junior blocked the way.

  “I don’t know what happened in here, but you better apologize.”

  “I’ll apologize after he helps us unload the trailer.”

  h

  The show ran late, thanks to a faulty fuse in the power circuit that kept blowing out. BCC didn’t hit the stage until midnight. Greg was still wound up from the fight, singing almost every song doubled over in front of Chris’s amp. The veins and muscles in his neck strained so hard it felt like his head might pop off. It would have been a welcome relief compared to the black energy pounding through his veins. He either needed a drink or somebody he could punch in the face for real this time. Nothing in between would suffice.

  The rest of the band sensed the hate radiating off of him and wisely kept their distance. Marco made sure no more than ten or fifteen seconds passed between songs, counting the next one in before everybody had a chance to look at the set lists taped to the ground. Chris spent the whole show catapulting himself into the air from the drum riser, like some acrobat on speed. JJ struck a wide stance at the beginning of the first song and spent the whole show in the same position, sawing at his bass strings with intense focus. Jerry faced his amp the whole time, sending buzz saw squalls of feedback through the PA system in wave after distorted wave.

  It was the best the five of them had ever sounded together, and everybody in the club knew it. When the show ended, the sold-out crowd threatened to riot unless the band came back for an encore. Greg stood backstage listening to the thunderous applause and manic screeches of joy, deciding what to do. There were three songs they hadn’t played, more than enough to placate the mob. But part of him wanted to see what would happen if they didn’t come back out. He wanted to know if they would really burn the place to the ground, or if it was all just an act.

  Chris made up Greg’s mind for him, pushing between two enormous bouncers to get back on stage. The crowd erupted as he plugged in his guitar. He let the feedback ring out until Marco and JJ came up to join him.

  Greg watched them for a moment, soaking up the chaos. He turned to Jerry with a triumphant look in his face.

  “What do you think?”

  Jerry spit in Greg’s face before running off to the dressing room. Greg wanted to follow him and finish what he’d started, but took it to the crowd instead. Everything that had been building up inside of him spilled out on the stage during those last three songs—the blood, bile, and betrayal of tortured nights and aimless vengeance. He felt annihilated when it was done, a useless pile of bloody nerves lying in a pool of electric sweat. He didn’t even make it all the way back to the dressing room, collapsing instead behind JJ’s bass amp while the club emptied out.

  Thirty minutes passed before Greg finally had enough energy to stand again. He rose up, shouldering the backstage door. Jerry was at the far end of the hallway, pushing his way through the fire exit. He had a backpack on one shoulder and a guitar in his other hand. They locked eyes for a heartbeat before the guitarist disappeared into the cold San Francisco night. Greg honestly didn’t care if he ever saw him again.

  He went into the bathroom to splash water in his face. The water ran rusty in the sink while he inspected his face in the mirror. Things looked even worse in the dim overhead light. His eyes were sunk deep in their sockets while his chins seemed to be multiplying. He twisted his head to see if he still had a good side when a loud crashing sound brought him back to reality.

  Greg waited to see if it would happen again, but the silence returned. He guessed it must be Marco or JJ grabbing their stuff from the dressing room. The water still wasn’t clear enough to drink, but it felt good on his face. He followed up with a wad of paper towels, hastily wiping grime from his forehead and sweat from his armpits. Several minutes passed before he emerged again, fresh from his pirate bath.

  He stepped across the hallway, letting himself into the dressing room. The lights were off, but an oscillating fan whirred in the background. He flipped the switch and saw instantly what had made the noise. A chair was tipped over in the center of the room, only inches below the tips of the latest victim’s tennis shoes. The sign hanging around his neck was the same as all the others.

  Chapter 14

  The third gig of the tour was scheduled only blocks from the Dead March headquarters in Portland. All of the bigwigs would be attending, with a private after-party scheduled at an exclusive restaurant in the Pearl District. Greg assumed it would all get canceled after the third body turned up, but he was wrong. Dead March hired a private security firm instead—for both events—assuring the band the show must go on.

  That meant the van had to leave San Francisco at eight in the morning if they wanted to be in Portland for sound check. This caused a lot of anxiety for Greg because half the band wanted to cancel the tour all together. Junior was the most vocal supporter of that plan.

  “My son’s safety is more important than some stupid show.”

  “It’s not like they’re killing band members, mom.”

  “People are dying, Chris. It doesn’t matter if they’re in the band or not.”

  Greg almost jumped in, but knew better than to get between Junior and her son. Besides, he had his own complicated feelings about the murders—if that’s even what they are. He’d been around and around in his head about it, trying to decide if it really could be a string of unrelated suicides inspired by Tommy’s book. If so, they all had blood on their hands. If not, they might not make it home from this tour alive. The more he thought abo
ut it, the more he felt like a cop trying to solve a case. That was the last thing he wanted.

  In the end, Greg decided they should play the Dead March show and cancel the remaining dates if necessary. He even offered to buy plane tickets home for Junior and Chris. That seemed to calm everybody down, especially combined with the promises of increased security from the label—everybody except for Tina, who threatened to quit several times after Jerry left. Greg suspected she hadn’t been totally honest about her relationship with their missing guitarist, but he didn’t push it.

  Tina still hadn’t heard from him the next morning and it ate her up.

  “We can’t leave without him.”

  Greg almost put a hand on her shoulder, deciding against it.

  “Jerry’s a suspect in a murder right now. Do you understand?”

  “I thought they were supposed to be suicides.”

  “Whatever it is, the police think Jerry might be involved.”

  Tears rolled down Tina’s cheeks.

  “He didn’t do anything. He’s not a murderer.”

  “Even if we wanted to wait around for him, the police would never let him leave. They’re only letting us go because we stayed up half the night proving we had nothing to do with it.”

  What he didn’t say was that she better hope the SFPD found him before Greg did. He’d had a bad feeling about Jerry since they first met, one he couldn’t shake. But Greg didn’t totally buy his guitarist as a killer either and it left him feeling at odds with himself. The cop in him wanted resolution, but something deeper down inside of him wanted a different kind of justice.

  “I understand if you aren’t coming with us. If you are, we’re leaving soon.”

  Junior went over to console Tina while the others finished loading the van. Chris was already strapped into the passenger seat with his phone jacked into the stereo. Greg eyed the empty row of seats toward the back and tossed the keys to JJ. With Jerry out of the picture, he probably isn’t stoned.

  “You drive the first leg. I need to catch up on some reading.”

  Greg climbed in, stretching out in the second-to-last row. He could hear Junior still trying to talk sense to Tina outside. It honestly didn’t matter to him if she came or not, but he’d rather keep her close in case she had answers. If Jerry really was the killer he probably had some help kidnapping the victims and stringing them up. He was physically capable of doing it alone, but didn’t have enough time considering all the demands the band put on him.