Driving in they passed a gook restaurant with punk rockers spilling out the doors. One chick would have been hot even if she did have a crew cut, but she had a fucking line of safety pins running from her pierced nose to her ear. Sick. Next they rolled past the Condor Club, where Carol Doda was shaking twin 44s. Sardine wanted to see her, but business was on and there was no time for gaping at gash. They drove past at least four more strip clubs. In front of the Barbary Coast a skinny barker in a sharkskin suit was screaming at a group of drunken sailors, demanding they come see the hottest chicks on Broadway, telling them if they didn’t they was all faggots. Someone once told Sardine that San Francisco was Sodom by the bay. Hell yes, now that was a fact.
On Montgomery, a yellow cab pulled up. Sam got out, all power and swagger, followed by Candy and Valentina. Glitter queens, they were dressed for maximum flash and effect.
“Bingo buffalo chip,” Sardine said, passing the binoculars to Cracker.
“Damn, Sam looks good.” The girls in their spike heels and plunging necklines were flashing the wrong parts for the mostly gay male crowd standing in front of Taxi Dancer. It didn’t matter. They looked so good even gay men gave them a nod as they slid up the sidewalk.
“How’d you like to nail that bitch?” Sardine said, taking back the binoculars.
“Sam?”
“No, not her,you fucking lame bastard. Look what she did to your face.”
“The skinny fox with the long hair?”
“No, look. Your fucking eyes, use them. The black chick. The fucking Tina-goddam-Turner bitch.”
“Dude, that’s a dude.”
“Shut the fuck up about my future ex.”
“OK, sure. I thought . . . sorry.”
“Want me to knock out what teeth Sam left you?”
Cracker disengaged. Eyes downcast he let Black Oak take him away. After Sam and her friends disappeared into the club Cracker waited a respectful five minutes before speaking.
“This deal ain’t going off ’til at least midnight. Think we could hit a Jack in the Crack, I’m hungry.”
“Son of a bitch. You’re always hungry.” On the ride they’d finished off three Snickers, a jumbo pack of Slim Jims, some Fritos, and a six-pack of Bud. Not the feast of kings, but fucking food. The speed killed Sardine’s appetite. Nothing could kill Cracker’s love of gas station food.
“Breeze paying us to eat, or watch that club?”
“Club.”
“That’s right. That’s what we’re gonna do.”
“OK. But when this is over, you think we could hang around?”
“You mean like a vacation? Eat gook food, ride cable cars, tour the chocolate joint?”
“Yeah, you think?”
“No, moron. We hit Sam and get shut of this freak show.”
Cracker knew better than to argue. One day he would do something cool, tough, show Breeze what he was made of. Maybe he could be in charge sometimes instead of always Sardine. Sardine was family. They’d both flunked fourth grade and dropped out. Sardine always looked after him. Always made sure they ate, got high, and he even got them laid sometimes up at Breeze’s motel. At fifteen a poke it wasn’t cheap, but the ladies was worth every penny. Maybe some day he would be the big shot. Maybe. It could happen.
• • •
Earlier that night, Candy dropped Jacob and Terry off at Sound and Fury’s studio. They were back in their overalls and Lynyrd Skynyrd tee shirts. Candy had boosted a U-Haul truck for the band’s equipment.
Cord jumped off the low stage and ran to them, pulling Candy into a kiss. “Hey babe, left in hurry this morn, forgot these.” He pulled a pair of satin panties from his pocket.
“Those were a gift.” She flashed him her sexiest smile.
Jacob shook his head almost imperceptibly and turned away.
“Cord, I need you to do a secret mission for me,” Candy said.
“Bond, James Bond.”
“Yeah, like that.” She spun him a tale of a long-running prank war with Sylvester. Tonight was payback. “At the stroke of midnight, I need you to pull the pin and roll these onto the stage.” She slipped two smoke grenades into his jacket pocket, then let her hand slide down him.
“You want me to blow up Sylvester?”
“They’re smoke, just smoke.” She rubbed her hand playfully up and down his zipper.
“Stroke of midnight?”
“Yes.” She cupped his building erection. “After that, you and me will have some celebrating to do.”
“Don’t you want to kiss me at midnight?” He looked hurt.
“I would love to, but I’ll be in the office making sure you get your cut of the door.”
Cord wasn’t happy for a moment, then he thought it over and started to smile. “Cash and trim, what magic lamp did I rub to get you?”
She flicked his erection. He yelped. She laughed.
• • •
At the entrance to Taxi Dancer, Sam dropped three twenties on the cashier, paying cover charges for her, Valentina and Candy.
“You all twenty-one?” The man was dressed in tighter than tight jeans, leather vest and a gold lamé bowtie on his bare neck. He was buff as hell. “Need to see some ID.” Tonight there would be no back door entrance. The bouncers were on high alert for the big night. Tonight they needed to walk in the front. “You girls don’t look old enough. Sorry, next.”
“Oh, honey child, thank you,” Valentina said. “You make me feel young.” Then, under her breath, “This here is Lydia Van Horton. Her daddy is a real son of a bitch lawyer. He will sue your ass you pull this ID bullshit tonight. Clear?”
“Sorry, Valentina, packed night. Boss said to keep the bitches out.”
“There ain’t a bitch in this group. Are we solid, or do I call her daddy?”
“Yeah, we solid.” He slapped her upturned palm and they were in. Downstairs, the cabaret was blocked off by a red velvet rope. A stud in jeans and bowtie stood guard over the door. On the stairs leading to the disco the party was already taking off. The Bee Gees’ “You Should Be Dancing” was pouring down on them. It was pure stair-strutting music. The three women stepped up, spun their fists in front and bounced their hips in unison. Laughing, Sam grabbed Candy’s face and kissed her to the hoots of the men around them.
“Cherry?” Sam asked, licking her lips.
“Of course.”
“Yummy.”
“You white girls are craaazy.”
“Yep.” Sam gave Valentina a kiss.
“You fuck up my makeup I will kill you, friend or not.”
“I love you, Valentina.”
“And I love your silly ass, Princess Samantha.” Giggling, the three best friends linked arms and yellow brick roaded up onto the dance floor.
• • •
The U-Haul van was parked at the back service entrance. Two massive bouncers with slicked back black hair wearing matching black suits with silver ties guarded the door while Terry and Jacob rolled speaker cabs and amps into the building. They went past the service elevator Sam had diagrammed for them, down the hallway and through a curtain onto the stage. Now that he had roadies, Chi Chi would only lift his finger to point. He was directing the boys where to place the equipment. Three dressing rooms lined the hallway. Sylvester and the Hot Band was written on one door. The Tubes was on the next. The last door just said Opening Act.
“That should say Sound and Fury, right?” Chi Chi said to Cord.
“It don’t matter, look where we are. We are about to open for the fucking Tubes.”
“It’s a respect thing. It should say our name.”
Terry was walking through the door carrying two guitar cases. They were heavy. They held the M16s and four clips each.
“What are those?” Chi Chi asked.
“Um, guitars, I guess.”
“Not mine.”
“Ariana Bend said they were just in case.”
“Let me see them.”
“What’s with the door?” Jaco
b said, walking up, a green duffle over his shoulder. “Where’s your name?”
“Right? I told you, Cord, told you.”
Cord looked at the door, trying to will it to change. Terry slipped into the dressing room.
“Get Ariana,” Chi Chi stomped a spike-heeled boot. “Tell her this is open disrespect. I won’t stand for it.”
Jacob took out a fat red permanent marker he had used to mark cables. He wrote in letters taller than The Tubes, SOUND AND FURY. He dropped the marker into his overalls pocket. “How’s that, boss? Still need Ms. Bend?”
“You fucking rock,” Chi Chi said. “Now get those drums loaded in.”
“All over it, boss.” Jacob gave him a two-finger salute.
While the band was onstage setting up, Terry slid the special guitar cases and the duffle behind a stained couch.
• • •
At the rough insistence of the bouncers, Jacob drove the U-Haul away from the loading dock. Not far down the alley the Firebird sat unnoticed, a dirty car cover kept it from catching the lights. Jacob parked the U-Haul near the mouth of the alley, blocking just enough space so that only one car could make it past.
• • •
As soon as the stage was set, Terry and Jacob disappeared into a backstage ladies’ room.
“Rock paper scissors,” said Jacob. “One, two, three.”
“Paper covers rock,” Terry said, wrapping his hand over Jacob’s fist.
“How can that be? Paper takes rock, really?”
“Really.”
“Two out of three.”
“No, Jake, you lose. That makes you eye candy, and me muscle.”
“Fine. Means you’re breaking down the stage when Sound and Fury’s set ends.”
“I know.” Terry went out, heading for backstage.
Jacob stripped off his overalls. Underneath he was wearing Sticky Finger jeans that were so tight he needed to lie down to get the fly zipped. He had a little kid’s tee shirt cropped over his ribs, alphabet blocks spelling out Brat. Tossing the trucker cap, he spiked up his hair. He applied eye makeup, combing out his lashes until they appeared impossibly long. Lip gloss. He looked in the mirror. You sexy beast. He dumped the roadie clothes into the trash.
When Jacob walked through the cabaret none of the band gave him a second look. Hitting the stairs, K.C. and the Sunshine Band was blasting “Shotgun Shuffle” from the dance floor above. The place was filling up. From the top of the stairs to the giant jukebox that was the DJ booth Jacob got his ass grabbed three times. He was proud. Didn’t want to fuck the guys, but proud they wanted him.
“Hi.” Jacob batted his eyes at the DJ.
“Hello, hot stuff.” The DJ was late twenties, good-looking in his tuxedo slacks and silver mesh tee shirt. “Hold on.” He swung around, hitting play on a tape cartridge. Judy Garland’s voice filled the room. “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”
Then the DJ spun the second turntable and The O’Jays’ “Livin’ for the Weekend” filled the room. “What can I do you for?”
“I just wanted to see how you do what you do.”
“Oh do you?” Only one of them was talking about spinning discs. “Climb aboard, sailor.” He reached down a hand and helped Jacob into the booth. Everything was where Sam said it would be.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Billy Two Times.”
“Why they call you that?”
“Once is never enough of anything.”
“Call me Mr. Magic.” The DJ cracked a popper and shoved it under Jacob’s nose. One deep hit and the room exploded into flying confetti of color and light. His heart felt ready to rip free of his body and start a band of its own. Sixty seconds later all that was left was the faint gym socks smell. “Ever do one just as you come?”
“No. Amazing?”
“Mind-blowing.” He winked not so subtly at Jacob. If only he could get past the fucking men part, Jacob was thinking being gay would be cool beans. Men said what they wanted, went for it. The room vibed sex without the desperation he always felt in straight discos. It was like they all came for the same reason—dance their asses off, have sex, get plastered and head home. It was the answer to the promise the Summer of Love had made.
“Boo?” Jacob said sparking a joint.
“I don’t smoke Mexican rag.”
“Good. Neither do I.” Jacob had been saving these Thai sticks for prom. He planned to take Candy, blow the other students’ minds.
The DJ took a deep hit. Held it, felt his lungs expanding, was suddenly coughing madly. Powerful as they were, they had the added kick of being dipped in opium. He pulled a beer out of an icebox under the record shelves. “Damn Billy Two Times, that shit rocks! Hit me again.”
Jacob did, and again after that. He wasn’t inhaling himself. Much as he hated wasting good smoke, he had a gig to do. Checked his watch—it was ten. Two hours. Down on the dance floor he saw Candy walking through the crowd. “Hey, that’s my sister.”
“Good-looking kid. Is she a model?”
“Yeah she is. Do you have Donna Summer?”
“Look where you are, kid.”
“Right. Will you play ‘Love To Love You Baby’?”
“Don’t even need a reason. You leaving me the rest of that joint?”
“Yes, but I’ll be back.” Jacob was out of the booth and moving through the sweat slick crowd. He caught Candy’s arm, spinning her around just as Donna Summer started to sing.
“What are you doing?” Candy looked stern.
“Making my big move.” Jacob turned up the heat, pulling her into him, rocking his pelvis against hers. Her eyes widened when she felt his growing chubby, then he spun her away and laughed. He was in control.
“This isn’t the time,” Candy said, but not very strongly.
“Oh, it is so past time.” Spinning her back into his chest, he whispered in her ear. “When this gig is done, I will have you screaming the names of gods you don’t believe in. There is a deal breaker though; I don’t share. Can you live with that?” Before she could speak he spun her away. At the apex of the spin he released his grip on her hand. The momentum took her another few graceful feet. When she looked for Jacob, he was gone, disappeared into the dancing happy mass.
• • •
“You and your sister are close,” the DJ said.
“Sister . . . it’s more of an honorary term.”
“Look, cutie, don’t care how you swing, long as you swing. Now hit me with another one of your wizard sticks.”
Jacob fired a fresh joint. He looked around the packed dance floor and started to laugh.
• • •
While Gloria Gaynor sang “Honey Bee,” Sam and Valentina were dancing. Moving through the crowd. Eyes scanning for Jo Jo, the big guy in the leather jumpsuit. He’d made at least fifteen cash drops by eleven. The inside man told Sam he never moved less than a grand, often as much as two. This was looking like a solid score. Sam was not relaxed, but she was less tense. This fucker had all the hallmarks of working.
• • •
Down in the cabaret, Sound and Fury was finishing their set. The crowd was digging them and their mixture of Queen’s fantasy storytelling and Bowie’s sexually ambiguous glitter. After two encores the room was still on its feet. The band would have kept playing but the cat at the mixing board dialed them out, effectively pulling the plug. Throughout the set Cord had scanned the crowd, but Ariana never showed. Bummer. Consolation prize was she was handling their business for them, and tonight he would have her all to himself.
• • •
Cracker’s stomach was growling like an upset lion.
“Can’t you shut that thing up?”
“No.” He grabbed his gut and made it move like a mouth. “I’m hungry, Sardine. Grrrrr.”
Sardine smiled in spite of himself. “How old are you, four?”
“Twenty-three, just like you. Kinda weird you not remembering that.”
“It�
��s called sar—never mind.” Their rusted-out van smelled of pigs’ feet, Slim Jim farts and sweat. Sardine climbed out, buttoning up his Pendleton wool jacket. “Stay. Keep your eyes on the front door.”
“Where you going?”
“None of your beeswax.”
“I have to piss like a racehorse.”
“That’s why I brung the milk carton.”
“Gross.”
“Do it, or don’t, just don’t leave the van or I’ll put a boot up your ass.” Slamming the door, Sardine walked across the street. The city was hopping. Music blasted from every car that passed. Bass thumped heavy from Taxi Dancer. Moving between the cars, he was searching for the perfect place. Rounding the building he found himself in the alley that ran behind the disco. He was pissing behind a dumpster when he had an idea. Why would they come out the front if they could hightail it out the rear? It didn’t take him long to spot the Firebird. Now it wasn’t even a long shot. All this time Cracker had them watching the wrong entrance. Lucky for them, Sardine was on the case.
• • •
In the cabaret, The Tubes were pouring out their unique brand of tight electrified rock. Bill “Sputnik” Spooner nailed a clean guitar solo to the wall of sound. Fee Waybill in full Quay Lude regalia teetered around the stage on fourteen-inch platforms and a tawdry silver spandex jumpsuit. He strummed a Q shaped glittery prop guitar. He had an absolutely impossibly large phallus stuffed into his pants. He was singing “White Punks On Dope.” The room was packed so tight that it moved as one big amoeba. The Tubes were part rock band, part performance art, part Vegas show. Cord watched them from backstage. In his leather jacket pockets he held the smoke grenades. Would he have the courage to toss them when the time came? He had better not puss out, not if he wanted to make muffins with Ariana again. Taking out the panties she’d left him he sniffed them and grinned.
Young Americans Page 11
