by Clea Simon
‘Anytime.’ He looks a little dazed as he walks her to the door, and she almost relents. Then she remembers what Peter has said. Min. And she turns and nearly runs.
TWENTY-TWO
She could be twenty-five again. Only not in a good way. She’s pulled the afghan over her as she lies on the sofa, calling Min for solace.
‘I should have known better.’ She sniffs, a little weepy. The wine she’s poured herself might not have been the best idea. ‘He seemed so nice.’
‘A divorced bartender?’ Min is arch, as always. ‘What a prize. So what’d he do?’
Tara hesitates. She’s shaken. That’s real. But here at home, under the afghan, glass in hand, her fears seem groundless. Any way she tries to phrase them will come off as silly.
‘Oh, it’s stupid.’ If Min were here, she’d have a harder time evading her. Min has a way of staring, one brow raised. Of waiting. ‘I just – I don’t know what I expected.’
‘Ah, nostalgia.’ There’s relish in the word, and Tara seizes on it.
‘Yeah, maybe.’ She sits up. Remembers. ‘Min, when Frank called to ask you about his grandson, what did you say the diagnosis was?’
‘Fabry’s.’ Min’s voice is flat. She’s not giving anything away.
‘And that’s genetic?’ She’s remembering what Mika said. What Nick said, too.
‘Yeah.’ Min draws it out, waiting for her to connect the dots. ‘X-linked.’
‘Does Mika’s husband have a history?’
‘Tara, this is private, OK? I can’t be talking about someone’s medical history.’
‘Mika’s not a patient.’ Tara isn’t put off. She’s too busy trying to work through the implications. ‘Neither is her son. Min, did Frank know?’
‘He wasn’t a fool.’ Min spits out the word. Still bitter or – no – still mourning. ‘I mean, even at the time, there were rumors. He didn’t care.’
‘You don’t think …’ It was so long ago, why would anyone care? ‘He wouldn’t have done anything – to Chris I mean?’
‘She’d already agreed to marry Frank when Chris died.’ Min’s voice is clipped. Curt. ‘She was already pregnant.’ As if Tara could forget that night, the party. ‘I mean, yeah, some people said that’s why Chris OD’d. Cause he’d fucked up with her. But, you know, if he’d snapped his fingers, Neela would’ve gone back to him. With or without the baby.’
‘But what if it wasn’t an accident? What if Frank was worried about Neela going back to him? You don’t think Frank would’ve … done something?’
‘You’ve been reading too many murder mysteries.’ Min’s laugh has little of humor in it. ‘Besides, Frank had no beef with Chris. Not anymore. He got what he wanted. He knew having a baby would settle Neela down. That was it for him, the reason to clean up and fly right. All he ever wanted.’
If she listens, she’ll hear the edge. The brittle bite to Min’s words. But Tara can’t let it go. Not yet.
‘You think Chris was going to snitch?’
‘What?’ Min laughs in surprise. ‘Where’d you get that one from?’
‘There was an investigation.’ Tara knows better than to bring up Peter. ‘The cops were looking into the drugs, all the heroin that showed up that winter. I heard they had a lead. Someone was going to talk.’
‘Sounds like a City story to me.’ The sound of a match being struck. An inhale. ‘Is this what your old pal has you working on?’
‘Kind of.’ Tara doesn’t want to go into it. ‘His boss is less than enthused.’
‘Jonah Wells, right?’ Another laugh. Softer this time. ‘Yeah, he’s put all that rock and roll mayhem behind him. Kind of surprised he hired Scott, actually.’
‘Scott’s a good editor.’ She doesn’t want to defend her old friend. Not tonight. ‘But isn’t it possible? Chris Crack was going to testify. Turn state’s evidence and then – boom.’
‘He was a junkie, Tara.’
‘He was cleaning up. He’d cleaned up.’ He was on the brink of fame, she wants to add. So close to having it all.
But Min is still talking.
‘He was a junkie.’ She says it again. ‘A junkie who’d detoxed. Whose family made him clean up, because they cared. Because they still had hope. And then as soon as he was free, he went right back to the shit. Shooting anything he could get his hands on. Only he couldn’t handle it, not after a few days’ clean, and it killed him. We see it all the time in the ER, Tara. All the time.’
She sleeps badly, her dreams a jumble of shadowy figures. She wakes to the knowledge that she has to go into work. That someone is trying to sabotage her in the present day. In the daylight world.
On her way in, she calls Scott. ‘It’s Tara,’ she says, in case the voicemail won’t identify her. ‘I’m having serious second thoughts about this story.’ There, it’s out.
When her phone rings – an unknown Boston number – she picks up right away. ‘Scott?’
‘Sorry.’ A familiar voice, a warm burr. Phil from the Whirled Shakers. ‘Is this Tara Winton?’
‘Yeah.’ She stops on the sidewalk. Confused.
‘I got your number from Katie,’ says the singer. ‘She said you’re doing a story on the scene?’
‘Yeah,’ she says. It’s useless. She’s a lifer. ‘Yeah, I am.’
She can’t play hooky. Not after the last few days. But she gets precious little done while waiting for her lunchtime interview with Phil. One press release, straight from the boilerplate. A draft of an update that will announce the ill-starred report, which she sends to Hugh, asking for feedback that she really doesn’t want. It’s more than she’d do most days, and it’s not even eleven. Time, she decides, for a break.
Days like this, she’s glad to be in Boston. Crisp, not cold, and clear, the sky an otherworldly blue. On an impulse, she begins to walk toward the harbor. It’s not far, but she’s never done it. Never walked farther than the T. She thinks of Scott’s place, with its fantastic view. Breathes in deeply and imagines a hint of salt. It makes Zeron more attractive, in theory, at least until she runs into a construction site bordered by mud and gravel. The chain link stretches for at least a block around the ‘Future Home of the Hub’s Best Views’.
The Hub. Back in the day, that was one of those words – a tell that someone wasn’t local. Wasn’t authentic. Scott, joking around one day, had laid out a headline: ‘Hub Heartbeats’. Tara couldn’t even remember what band he was spoofing. She’d changed it to ‘Heartthrobs’, and they’d both laughed so hard, she’d nearly pissed herself. Of course, the beer hadn’t helped either.
What happened to Scott? She turns and begins to walk along the fence. There’s no sidewalk here. Some earth mover has chomped up the pavement. The slabs that remain are tilted at crazy angles, and she steps into the street, where it’s easier.
Her memory sparks. She used to walk in the street on her way to the Casbah. The sidewalks weren’t broken then, not that she can remember, but they were empty, and the shadows cast by the silent warehouses were dark. She looks around and it’s as if the daylight recedes. The club wasn’t far from here, she realizes, though it could have been another world. She checks her watch. She’s not due to meet Phil for a good twenty minutes yet, and if she recalls correctly Summer Street should be only a block over. Two blocks, maybe, the construction as disorienting as the bright sunlight.
She finds the street by its sign, eventually, three blocks down and another over from where she started. That lane, she thinks, wasn’t there. Was, if anything, an alley as threatening as those shadows. She’d seen a rat run out of there once, as big as her old cat. What it was running from, she didn’t dare guess. Though she’d heard the laughter at her own gasp. Voices back in that alley. The slurred invitation to come join in. Maybe the drugs had always been a part of the scene. But, no – Peter wasn’t an insider. Wasn’t smitten or infatuated or whatever word he’d used for her. He saw something new. Only to him, it was a story to be written, and not a personal tragedy.
Not until she steps up onto the old stone curb does she get her bearings. She remembers that curb, a little too high and slick when it froze. The building behind it, a restaurant, is new, though it too is stone – some hipster concoction of granite and glass. This street: if she closes her eyes, she can see it. Paving stones covered with a thin coat of asphalt. The ancient heart of a working city. Still working, in its own way. She opens her eyes and continues on. Zeron is only about five blocks behind her, but she’s passed into another world. Sees them shift and change. Southie. The Seaport, and now the Innovation District.
Progress is on its way. Past the chic bistro, she sees sunlight and catches her breath. The Casbah stood here, until it didn’t. The long, low building must have been a warehouse of some sort originally. A loading dock. Storage. She can picture it, set back behind the large lot that served as the last obstacle course for a pedestrian. She remembers running through it, past parked cars – a few left there for good. Anxious not to be late. Eager for the evening to start. For a moment, she thinks she can even see Frank, those last few months when he was working the door. Jonah, lurking, in those stupid suits. Chris and Neela laughing. Falling into the wall.
She’d go there now. Trace the footprint of the cavernous club. Only there’s nothing there, not even the lot. A giant pit in its place, and the entire lot – it must be an acre – surrounded by chain link eight-feet high. The site is quiet, work stalled by her memories, or maybe it’s the economy. There are rumors. Maybe the innovation hasn’t reached this far yet, but that’s OK. She leans into the fence, hooking her fingers through it. She remembers that night, the last night. The music. The scene.
‘Sure looks different, doesn’t it?’ The voice, with its warm rumble. Tara turns, as if in a dream. Phil is standing beside her, hands up on the chain-link fence as if he, too, would vault it. Back in time.
‘No shit!’ She huffs a little laugh, startled. The sun is brighter than she’d remembered.
‘I saw you.’ He’s apologetic. ‘I mean, I was walking this way to meet you. Figured it’s such a nice day, and then I saw you here. Amazing, huh?’
‘Yeah.’ She turns back toward the pit, peering through the wire of the fence. ‘It looks bigger than I remember. Though I guess some of that was the parking lot.’
‘Looks the same.’ She turns to see if he’s joking. ‘I mean, they never repaved it.’
‘That’s right.’ She nods. ‘The potholes that could break your axle. I’m surprised Jonah never got sued.’
‘Jonah?’ Phil’s looking at her, the lines between his brows, bracketing his mouth have deepened.
‘Jonah Wells. Wasn’t he the owner?’
A shrug. ‘Those days? Who knows. I mean, he ran the place.’
‘Well, he did well for himself.’ She thinks of City and of Scott.
‘That place was a gold mine.’ Phil is staring ahead, as if he can still see the club.
‘Well, the land, sure.’ Tara looks at where the club stood, its logo – a caricature oasis, complete with palms – painted on the wall. ‘But back then?’
‘Hey, it was the Wild West back then.’ He turns from the site and shrugs, a faint smile playing on his lips. ‘But what do I know? The Whirled Shakers weren’t exactly a Casbah band.’
‘You should’ve been.’ As if by agreement, they both begin to walk away, over the broken pavement and back toward where the corporate world has already staked its claim.
‘So what else can I tell you?’ Phil leans back, smiling at the memories he has shared. The stuffy practice rooms, the lousy gigs. The night the toilet at the Rat overflowed and flooded the room. ‘What else do you want to know?’
‘Anything else you care to share.’ Tara leaves it open. Loose. The café is nearly empty this early and talking with the singer is easy. Easier than she’d expected. Or maybe it’s just the memory of her last interview here – with Greg – that has her looking for shadows on this sunny day. ‘What was it like, back then? You must have felt like a king.’
He laughs, but there’s warmth in it. ‘A duke, maybe.’ He shakes the compliment off. Bends over his latté. The smell of the coffee is as rich as his voice, but as he leans forward to sip from the big cup, she sees the grey in his hair. The way it’s receding at the temples. ‘We were never a part of the inner circle.’
Tara leans her seat back. ‘Oh, come on!’
‘No, really, Tara. You were one of the only ones who thought we were stars. Well, you and Gina.’
He looks up, licks the foam from his lip. An image comes unbidden. Gina, her head bobbing, backstage. She turns away so he won’t see her blush. Picks up her own oversize mug to account for the color in her cheeks.
‘I like to think …’ She stops herself. Phil and Gina were close once, at least as far as she knew.
‘Gina’s a bit of a mess.’ He gets it. ‘But she’s a good egg. And, hey, she had an all-access pass to everything that was going on back then. She was the all-access pass.’
He’s staring out the window as well. The cars in the lot glitter in the sun. Tara can only guess at the memories. ‘Hey, I thought you wanted to talk about Frank?’
Suddenly, the bright glare from the window is too much. She leans forward. Turns away.
‘What is it?’ Phil sits forward. ‘You OK? Did I say something – is it because of Frank?’
‘Sort of.’ She manages a grin. ‘I’m just … I interviewed Greg here, and he got upset.’
‘Greg’s a bit of an asshole.’ Phil doesn’t sound surprised. ‘He’s still pissed that his brother did time.’
‘He did?’ She catches herself. Remembers hearing something. ‘Drugs?’
Phil nods. ‘Smack. Fool. He’s lucky he didn’t get busted for intent to distribute.’
‘Was he dealing?’ Tara tries to remember if she knew him. If she saw him with Chris. Then it hits her. ‘Would he have turned informant?’
‘Gary? No.’ A wave of sadness passes over the singer’s face. ‘He’s not together enough. He just had a habit. Like a lot of folks back then.’
‘But not Frank.’ Tara feels like she’s looking at a puzzle. Like if she could just twist the pieces around.
‘No way.’ His eyes widen. ‘He drank, sure. But smack? No. Not even … you knew about Brian, right?’
She nods. He’d been managing the Casbah bar by then. A success. The needle was still in his arm when they found him. She thinks of Min, of what she said.
‘Hey.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Do you think Chris Crack committed suicide?’
He exhales noisily. They’re so close that she feels his breath. His warmth. ‘Junkies,’ he says at last. ‘That shit is slow suicide anyway.’
‘Did you ever?’ She wants to ask. Remembers Min in the bathroom. Remembers too much. But he’s put his mug down. Pushing his chair back.
‘No, that wasn’t my scene ever.’ One last smile. A flash of the star. ‘The music was always the buzz for me. Like you – and like Gina.’ He stands. Pulls his jacket off the chair. ‘You should talk to her. She likes you.’
She follows him out. The breeze has picked up, bringing with it the salt of the harbor. The warm tar smell of construction, and suddenly she’s back.
‘Kind of hard to believe the waterfront has changed so much,’ she says as they step outside. ‘Gotten so … clean.’ That’s the wrong word. Modern. Sterile.
‘Yeah, times have changed.’ He’s looking around, and she wonders what he sees. The old buildings, now replaced or refaced with chrome and glass. The dank nights banished by the bright day. ‘Some people made some money when they cashed out.’
‘That they did.’ She thinks of Scott’s apartment, with that view. Of Jonah Wells. ‘I guess it was all about timing. The new boom.’
He leans in, and for a moment she thinks he’s going to kiss her. ‘More like getting out before the old bust,’ he says, his mouth right near her ear. ‘Anyway, this has been good. You should come out next month – the fourteenth.’
&
nbsp; ‘Another reunion show?’ Her voice is too loud. Too hearty. ‘You’re making this a regular thing?’
‘The boys have football practice on Thursdays.’ That smile is back, but it’s for another life. ‘Joanie says I need to get out of the house more, too.’
He walks off leaving her oddly bereft. Maybe, she thinks, she understands Gina a little more. Phil was wrong about one thing. He was always a star.
TWENTY-THREE
No matter what Phil says, she wasn’t the only one. And it wasn’t only women – Katie, Gina, OK, Tara adds herself to the list – who fell prey to the singer’s charisma. It was Scott, after all, who had wanted her to write about the band. Who had sent her off to interview them, back when they were just beginning to get the headline slots.
‘Check it out,’ he’d said. They were laying out the listings. Or she was. He was more what he’d call multitasking – looking over her shoulder for bands to feature in the next month’s issue, fussing with a photo as he did. ‘The Whirled Shakers are headlining a Thursday at Oakie’s.’
‘Oakie’s?’ She straightened the type. Let her tone speak for itself. The club was a bit of a backwater. The action centered on Kenmore Square back then – Kenmore or the waterfront.
‘Yeah, Oakie’s.’ She’d been a bit aimless still, unsure of who was worth writing about and who, for some then inexplicable reason, would be considered beyond the pale. Scott knew it. She was his project, as much as Underground Sound. ‘You should go to the show. Talk to them after. They’ll love you.’
‘What do you mean?’ She didn’t know that then, the evening Scott sent her off on assignment. ‘They’ll love me?’ She hadn’t seen Gina, then, down on her knees. But she wasn’t a fool, either.
‘You’re press!’ Scott’s emphasis sprayed her with his beer. ‘That’s what I mean, silly!’
‘Oh.’ She’d adjusted the X-Acto knife in her hand. Trimmed a strip of copy. ‘So why aren’t you going?’
‘They’re sick of me.’ He reached across her, brushed a whisker of paper away. For all his personal slovenliness, Scott was finicky about layout. ‘And you need to become a regular. You need to learn.’
