I was sure. At least about the concert. See, what Ella didn’t know was that I already had plans to see Mind at Large up close and personal. The next day, they were scheduled to record the single they were releasing to promote their concert. Clever me, I’d managed to get myself invited to the session.
How?
It wasn’t hard, really. Not once I called their agent, Gene Terry, reintroduced myself, and reminded him about the book I was supposed to be writing. Oh yeah, I reminded him about something else, too. Like that I was the one with Vinnie when he died and that I had a message for the band—from Vinnie.
Anybody who lives in Cleveland and most people who’ve ever visited know about the Flats. It’s the area along both the east and west banks of the Cuyahoga River, literally the flat land in the center of a city. From what I remember from Ohio history class (and believe me when I say that’s not much), it’s where the first pioneers settled, and a few decades ago, it was home to dozens of industries.
Cleveland’s days as a powerhouse of manufacturing are over, but the Flats still hangs on. I remember when I was back in high school and it was the place to party. It was hopping, night to morning, with nightclubs and bars. A bunch of muggings and a couple of murders put an end to that, and though there are still a few clubs around and a number of developers who are trying to revive the area, most of the party action has moved up the hill to the Warehouse District.
These days, a lot of the Flats is deserted, and the businesses that remain are mostly small manufacturers, lake shippers, and warehouses. The roads that wind under massive bridges and over railroad tracks are pocked with potholes.
I maneuvered my Mustang around one the size of the bathroom back at my apartment and checked the address I’d written on a piece of paper against the numbers on the nearest boarded-up building. It just so happened to be the biggest, the most dilapidated, and the spookiest-looking place on the block. It was also exactly the place I was looking for—the home of Ajaz Recording Studios.
I parked the car and tiptoed my way across a parking lot dotted with murky puddles, empty beer cans, and bits of paper that scuttled along on a stiff breeze off nearby Lake Erie.
Once inside, I found myself in a long, dark hallway that opened into a gargantuan and very empty warehouse. There were more puddles (I didn’t want to think of what), scritchy and scratchy noises (I didn’t want to know what made them), and an AJAZ sign above a doorway that was all the way on the other side of the building.
My heels clicked against the concrete, and the sound echoed up the high walls and off the broken glass of what was left of the windows that faced the river. To my left on the second, third, and fourth stories of the building was a walkway that overlooked the warehouse floor. Beyond it and through the gloom, I could see what must once have been offices.
The door into the studio was secured, and I got buzzed in. Fortunately, the Ajaz offices were lighter, brighter, and far cleaner than what I’d seen outside. The purple-haired receptionist with multiple eyebrow piercings explained that Ajaz’s shabby exterior was a great way to keep burglary to a minimum and showed me into a control room with a panel so chock-full of dials and lights and buttons, it looked like the bridge on the Starship Enterprise. I smiled briefly at Bernie, the Mind at Large bodyguard. He was somehow managing to munch donuts, even though there was a cute girl in a short, short denim skirt and a top that showed off her belly button ring on his lap. I nodded to the roadies who were standing around looking bored.
Crazy Belinda was there, too, sipping City Roast coffee while she rocked back and forth mumbling something about death and destruction. I was careful not to make eye contact. Yeah, I had plenty I still needed to talk to her about (like what, specifically, was in that missing photograph), but I would handle that sometime when there was nobody else around.
The moment I walked in, I had planned to introduce myself to the two techies sitting behind the control panel and apologize if I was interrupting them while they worked, but it turned out, I didn’t have to bother.
Like everyone else in the room, the two sound technicians weren’t working. They were watching the melee on the other side of the glass wall that separated the control room from the sound studio, where Mind at Large, troubadours to the Make Love, Not War generation, were going at one another like cats and dogs.
“What the bloody hell!” Alistair threw down his sticks, got up from his seat behind the drums, and kicked a hand-tooled leather cowboy boot straight through the bass drum that had Mind at Large painted on it in psychedelic purple lettering. Even the resulting noise wasn’t enough to drown his voice. “Are you ruddy amateurs?” he screamed. “Have you forgotten how to make a friggin’ recording? You know to use an eight-beat count-off instead of four. The last two beats are silent, Mike. Did you forget to bring your fuckin’ brain with you when you crawled out of your bottle this morning?”
Mighty Mike’s eyes were streaked with red and when he threw down his guitar, his hands shook. Since there was a bottle of Southern Comfort open beside him, I didn’t think the trembling had anything to do with how angry he was. The way he jumped out of his chair did, though. Just like the way he got in Alistair’s face.
“Here we go again.” One of the guys at the control panel groaned and flicked a couple of switches, turning off the sound between the studio and the control room. From where we stood on the other side of the glass, we were witnesses to the silent ego war. We could see the bandmates battling, their mouths opening and closing, their fingers pointing and their expressions ranging from livid (the ever-pleasant Alistair) to downright I’m-so-frickin’-mad-I’m-gonna-kill-you (Mike, but that might have had something to do with the fact that when Pete rushed forward to put in his two cents, he kicked over Mike’s bottle of booze). Thank goodness, we couldn’t hear a thing. We really didn’t need to. Lip-reading skills are not required to recognize the f-bomb.
Technician Number One had apparently seen enough. He laid his head on the table in front of him. The other techie sat back and made himself comfortable. He reached for a pack of cigarettes.
“They’ve done this before, huh?” Since nobody else seemed to be paying attention to what was happening in the studio, I directed my question to Techie Number Two. It wasn’t as polite as the introduction I’d been planning, but it was the best way I could think to remind him I was still there and waiting. “How long is this going to take?”
He grabbed a chair and pushed it in my direction. “You might as well have a seat, honey. If it’s anything like the five or six other fights they’ve already had today, we could be here until the wee hours.”
I reached for the chair, but before I had a chance to sit, Ben, who’d been tossing his opinions into the melee from the fringes, caught sight of me. His eyes lit, not so much with interest as with curiosity. Ben reached around Pete (who was so mad he was hopping up and down) to hit a button on the microphone that allowed him to talk to the control room. “Hey, is this the chick?” he asked.
Techie Number Two looked up at me.
“I’m the chick,” I said.
“Hey, assholes!” We were back to hearing everything that was going on in the studio, and Ben’s voice rose above the babble of voices. “The chick is here.”
Mighty Mike had his back to me. Hanging on to a microphone for balance, he pivoted to get a good look. Pete kicked over a music stand and stomped to the other side of the studio, but not before he glared at me. Alistair shot a death-ray look at both of them, and then, just for good measure, sent one just as nasty my way.
I swallowed hard. “Your agent said I could talk to you.” Though I probably didn’t have to, I automatically raised my voice so they could hear me. “All of you.”
Nobody threw a hissy fit. In my book, that was as good as an engraved invitation. Before anybody could change their minds, I headed where the technician pointed.
I’ve never been accused of being sensitive (well, except to cheap wool sweaters and pierced earrings that aren’t
silver or at least 14-karat gold), but even I could feel the bad blood there in that studio. It was as heavy in the air as the smell of the cigarette Ben was puffing on. I stopped just inside the door, checking out the cramped quarters and gauging the best place to stand and keep out of the way of the toxic vibes.
Was it next to Mighty Mike, who was rummaging through a cooler in search of a new bottle of Southern Comfort? Or Pete, so short and skinny, he looked like a starving refugee from some dusty country? (Which, come to think of it, might have been the reason he was eyeing me up like something he’d ordered in from the deli.)
It wasn’t anywhere near Alistair, that was for sure. I’d seen Alistair in action back at the Rock Hall, and I wasn’t taking the chance of getting in his way, especially not when his face was so red, it looked as if his head was going to shoot off like a bottle rocket.
I opted for Ben, partly because I thought maybe his animosity for his bandmates didn’t run as deep as theirs. After all, he was the newest member of Mind at Large. Newest being a relative word, of course. I knew from my research that he’d once belonged to a band called Frame Forward; he’d joined Mind at Large as lead singer after Damon’s death. Besides the benefit of history (or in this case, the lack thereof), there was a tattoo of a crucifix on Ben’s left arm. I figured with tempers running high, a religious guy might be my safest bet.
Until I saw that the crucifix was topped with a crown of thorns and that it dripped blood and had fire and brimstone shooting out from the sides of it.
And that Ben’s right arm was tattooed with the face of a leering red Satan and the words Praise the Lord.
I wondered which arm applied to his current stage of spiritual development. I wasn’t sure which scared me more.
No matter. I had a job to do, and just so there was no mistaking that I wasn’t going to be intimidated into not doing it, I employed my slightly-pissed-and-not-going-to-take-it-anymore tour guide voice, the one I used with the senior citizens who were convinced they could chatter with one another and wander off when I was trying my damnedest to educate them. It was loud enough to command attention, friendly without being too sweet. Let’s face it, coming out of a five-foot-eleven redhead, it was also bound to make an impression.
“I talked to Gene Terry yesterday,” I said. I waited while the grumbling and the curses faded to a dull roar. “He told me I could stop in and see you.”
I had used both common sense and fashion sense that morning. Remembering Vinnie’s lecherous looks, I’d chosen a black pantsuit and a yellow shirt with a high neckline and long sleeves.
It didn’t stop the guys from leering.
“Come on in, pretty lady.” Mike’s anger was forgotten in a moment. He bowed and ushered me closer with a gesture that sent a tsunami of alcohol fumes my way. “Gene told us you were coming. He didn’t tell us you were a hot little number.”
Pete was skinny enough to slip between Mike and the equipment so he could get nearer to me. Up close, he looked more emaciated than ever. He was as pale as one of those fish that live so far below the surface they never see the light, and his face was a map of wrinkles and lines. I’d seen dead people who looked more alive. I knew a couple of them personally. I guess that’s why when Pete looked me up and down and licked his lips, it gave me the willies.
“Don’t listen to this old man,” Pete purred. “I’m the only one here who can get you backstage passes to the concert.”
“Bullshit.” Ben finished one cigarette and lit another. “This chicky don’t need no stinkin’ backstage pass. She’s gonna be too busy to go backstage.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “In the tour bus with me.”
“Actually, I already bought my ticket for the concert.” Yeah, yeah, so I lied. Like it was some big deal? “I was surprised to see there are so many seats left.”
“You should have seen sales before Vinnie did us the favor of getting himself offed.” When Alistair tried to remove the broken drum from his drum set and it wouldn’t budge, he gave it another kick. He glared at the drum before he glared at his bandmates. “Of course, what the bloody hell did we expect? Who’d want to come see a bunch of old, has-been musicians?”
“Plenty of people.” Pete played bass, and the way I remembered it, he didn’t sing much. No wonder. His voice was high-pitched and nasal. “We’re still on top of the world. Nobody can touch us.”
“Nobody would want to touch you.” Mike thought this was pretty funny. He laughed and choked and pounded his chest.
“Yeah, well, things are going to change.” Pete made a grab for a sheaf of music that was on a nearby table, and I had a feeling he’d been through this tirade with his bandmates before. They turned away. I was a new audience, and he took full advantage. He waved the music under my nose. “Now that Vinnie’s out of the picture, maybe Gene will listen when I tell him I’ve got some good songs in me, too. We can record my songs instead of Vinnie’s and then—”
“Then the whole world will know what a loser you are!” Mike laughed.
When I saw Pete’s top lip curl, I knew I had to take charge.
“Hey! Listen up!” Pete was near the glass window that looked into the control room. Alistair was directly opposite him, over near his drums. Mike was standing across from me, and Ben was facing him from the other side of the studio. I marched into the middle of the pack. Maybe I had a death wish, but at least for as long as they kept their mouths shut, I also had the floor.
“I know you must be busy,” I said. “I’m sure it takes a long time to record a song. I don’t want to hold you up.”
“Oh, baby, I could hold you up,” Mike purred. “Over my head, while I—”
“That’s why I’m going to say what I have to say and get out of your way.” I cut him off before he could elaborate on the fantasy. “As Gene may have mentioned to you, I have a message for you. All of you.” I looked around the circle. “It’s from Vinnie.”
“Yeah, we heard.” Mike cracked open the new bottle of liquor, took a swig, and offered the bottle to me. When I declined, he drank my share. “I didn’t think Vinnie still had it in him to catch the eye of a babe as fine as you. So, he was banging you before he got killed, huh?”
“No.” My protest was swift and vehement. “I took Vinnie’s class at the Rock Hall. That’s how I knew him.”
“So if Vinnie had something to tell us while he was teaching that class at the Rock Hall, why didn’t he just call?” Ben asked and added, “Oh yeah, we all thought Vinnie was a jerk. Nobody would have wanted to talk to him, anyway.”
“He didn’t give me the message at the Rock Hall.”
“You’re the girl who was with him when he died.” Pete thought he had it all sorted out. He pulled himself up to his full height. It might have been effective if he was bigger than a Munchkin. “So Vinnie said something to you before he died, right? Like one of those deathbed speeches. Don’t tell me, let me guess. He was sorry we spent our time recording his shitty songs instead of my good ones.”
“He didn’t give me a message before he died.”
“Yeah, right.” Pete dismissed me with a good-riddance wave of one hand. “Like he gave it to you after he died!”
“Well, see…” I looked from Alistair to Mike, and from Pete to Ben. “He did.”
Not too long before this, if I heard someone confess to talking to the dead, I would have been speechless. Sure, I would have thought that person was a little crazy. Or a lot crazy. But for all its faults (and considering that my dad would be spending the next ten years as a guest of the federal government, I admit that these faults are many), my family raised me right. Early on, I learned to be tolerant and polite. Unless it was for something vitally important (like a sale at Saks or—come to think of it—a murder investigation), I knew better than to make a scene.
Of course, Alistair, Ben, Pete, and Mike hadn’t been brought up in the Martin family. In fact, my guess was that they’d probably been raised by wolves. Or maybe it was hyenas. That would explain why they all started
to laugh.
I gritted my teeth in a grin-and-bear-it way and realized that I’d learned a couple of things that day. Number one: I did not ever want to spend time with ancient rock and rollers again. Number two: I don’t like the smell of Southern Comfort. Number three: It’s humiliating to make an important announcement and have it met with complete and total disbelief.
I guess that’s what really pissed me off.
I ditched the tour guide voice for something sure to attract a little more attention. “Laugh if you want. You know it’s possible. At one time, you were all involved with black magic.”
“Big deal.” Ben wheezed and fingered the tattoo of Lucifer on his arm. “You don’t think we actually believed any of that garbage, do you?”
“Vinnie did.”
Mike thought about taking another drink and changed his mind. He hung on to the neck of the bottle. “It’s true,” he said. “But how do you know it? Is that what he told you when he was dying? About the spells he used to cast? Shit, leave it to Vinnie to spend his last minutes on earth still talking that trash. We only went along with him and the whole magic scene because sometimes his freakin’ magic bullshit included orgies. Did he tell you that, too?”
Tombs of Endearment Page 19
