The phone rang while I was switching to the final album. It was Squig. “What’s shaking?” he said.
“I was listening to the first Toby Bonner solo album.”
“I been listening to Blue Cheer. We got Black Sabbath next. You find him yet?”
“I found all his albums. It’s a start.”
Nothing.
“It’s a joke, Squig.”
“Oh. Funny.”
“You’re high, aren’t you?”
“How’d you know?”
“The odds were with me.”
“Want to come over and do a jay?”
It was tempting. “Where do you live?”
“We got a house on Leland.”
“Where’s that?”
“Hollywood. Off Cherokee.”
If it had been closer … “Think I’ll pass.”
“How about tonight?”
“What’s tonight?”
“Me and Woz and Frampton are going to sit around remembering stuff.”
There was yelling in the background. Squig said something, the other person said something. Squig got back on. “Woz says if you have any Grand Funk Railroad you should bring it.”
“I don’t. And I can’t make it tonight. I’m going to a play.”
“A play?”
“You know, actors on a stage, that kind of thing.”
“What about after?”
“We’re going to a club.”
“Which one?”
“It’s called Da Capo.”
“Cool place. I saw Spencer Davis there a while back. Who’s on tonight?”
“I don’t know. But supposedly Toby showed up there one night, and I’m looking for a guy who’s supposed to have seen him.”
“What guy?”
“Named Mott.”
“Like Mott the Hoople?”
“Yeah. Gina and I are going and I’ll see if I can track him down, or maybe someone else who saw Toby.”
“Your old lady.”
A good a term as any. “Yeah. My old lady.”
“Cool. Hey, tell you what. We’ll round up ours and meet you there.”
“I don’t think—”
“It’ll be a groove. The Platypuses and their chicks. Just like old times.”
“In the old times I didn’t have any chicks. I don’t remember you having any either.”
“Just like old times, only better. What time?”
“Ten, eleven, something like that.”
“Far out. See you later.” And he was gone.
“Far fucking out,” I told the dead phone.
I put on the second and last Toby Bonner solo album. It was just him and his guitar with simple bass, drums, and occasional piano backing. Eleven songs. On all but two he was playing acoustic, something I’d never heard him do before. It was absolutely gorgeous. Some of the picking sounded classical. Some was like flamenco. Some was like nothing I’d ever heard in my life.
His voice had changed, maybe as a result of his trip through heroin hell. It was rougher, more world-weary. It fit the songs perfectly. Four of them were old blues things. There were six originals, each more heart-rending than the last. The finale was just Toby and his acoustic doing “A Whiter Shade of Pale.” It made me want to cry. He sounded like he was skipping the light fandango on the night the world ended.
Love Is Coming Down
The play that night featured my old acting pal Joe Parlakian. He’d been trying to get me to join his theater company. The show was in a storefront on Willoughby in Hollywood. There were thirty or so seats, half of them filled.
It was a mediocre play, but Joe was damned good. He transcended the material, that kind of thing. Gina and I hung out afterward, doling out congratulations. Joe invited us to coffee. I begged off, citing my previous plans. We shook hands all around. Joe held onto mine and asked if I’d given any more thought to joining their company. I said I’d found another outlet for my creative urges and told him about the band.
He shook his head. “Rock and roll. It will wear off. Then you’ll come join us.”
“I don’t think so.”
“We’ll see.” He gave me an all-knowing smile, let go my hand, strode off.
I turned to Gina. “What about you? You think it’s going to wear off?”
“I hope not,” she said.
“Why’s that?”
“Because,” she said, “you’re going to look fabulous in leather pants. “
It’s a shame Love, with their inspired blend of rock, folk, jazz, flamenco, and psychedelia, never made it big. Their third album, Forever Changes, constantly shows up on best-of-all-time lists, even though practically no one has heard of them. After that one they lost the muse, mutating constantly, the only constant being a demented genius named Arthur Lee.
He’d gone to jail in ’96 on weapons charges, but according to the guy collecting nine-buck covers at Da Capo, he’d just been sprung. The buzz was that he was going to make an appearance, which was appropriate, given that Da Capo was the title of Love’s second album.
We stepped through a dark alcove lit only by a blacklight that made Gina’s bra glow through her shirt, and into a room with Fillmore posters on the walls, lava lamps on each table, baby boomers in every seat. The waitresses wore tie-dye shirts and bell-bottoms. The bartenders were dead ringers for Chad and Jeremy. Or maybe it was Peter and Gordon; I never could keep them straight. A Byrds tribute band was on-stage, complete with Prince Valiant haircuts, granny glasses, and twelve-string. They were well into “Eight Miles High.”
We craned our necks, looking for a table. Something hard poked the small of my back. “Don’t move,” came a gravelly whisper.
I froze. But only for half a second. Then I relaxed and glanced over my shoulder. “Hey, Woz.”
He was wearing a paisley shirt, open most of the way, with a large pewter cross dangling between his pecs. He was clearly disappointed that I’d sussed him out. But his eyes brightened when they alit on Gina. On her breasts, more specifically. “Hey,” he told them. “You must be Joe’s old lady.”
“I’m up here,” she said.
“Huh? Oh. Sorry.”
I sniffed. Eau de marijuana. “You got a table?” I said.
“Yeah. Come on.” He sneaked another peek at Gina’s chest and led us into the throng.
“Another boob man,” Gina said.
“We all are,” I said.
They had two round tables pushed together. Squig, also in retro costume, sat with his arm around a fortyish willowy blond. When he saw us he jumped up. His friend unfurled herself too. She was half a head taller than he.
“Joe,” he said. “You made it.”
“Yup,” I said. “Though I didn’t know proper attire was required.”
“No big. This is Chloe.”
“Gina.” We shook hands all around. Chloe’s was like ice.
Frampton was there too, with his wife June, an Asian woman thin as he was, and, as Woz has said, a couple of decades younger than Frampton. We got through that round of introductions before I noticed the last person at the table, the proof that Woz was indeed a breast aficionado. Hers were astounding. They brought to mind the old commercial: so round, so firm, so fully-packing her blue leather minidress. She had long auburn hair and great teeth. Her name was Goldie, and she was, we found out within fifteen seconds of meeting her, a professional psychic.
As we got settled a waitress came over. Gina and I ordered beers and some of the others asked for refills. The band was working on “The Bells of Rhymney.” They had the sound down, all right, the jingle-jangle, the nasal harmonies. I listened to a couple more songs before excusing myself and making my way to the bar. In the movies the bartender was always on top of everything. I waved to get someone’s attention.
Chad or Jeremy or Peter or Gordon came over. He was between twenty and fifty and had a blond bowl-over-the-head do. “What can I get you?”
“Information. I’m looking for a guy named Mott.”
>
“You’re not the only one.”
“What’s that mean?”
He nodded toward a lissome redhead sitting alone at the other end of the bar. She was running a stirrer through a glass of something blue.
“His old lady. He took off a couple days ago with another chick. She was like seventeen. Deanna over there would love to get her hands on him.”
“Thanks.” I laid down a couple of bucks, moved along the bar, stood behind her. The red hair which had looked so good from across the room was brittle and frayed. “Excuse me.”
She pivoted on the seat, eyed me up and down. She was wearing a long green dress. Her necklace was strung with tiny brown and white seashells. Her face was brittle too. “Do I know you?”
“No.”
“Let me save you the trouble. There’s no way.”
“I’m not trying to pick you up.”
“What, then?”
“Mott.”
“What about him?”
“You’re his girlfr—his old lady, so I hear.”
“So I hear too.”
“Maybe he’ll come around.”
“He usually does.” She swept the stirrer through her glass again, took a healthy slug. “Though usually they’re a little older than this little twat. What do you need the son of a bitch for?”
“I heard he saw Toby Bonner at some after-hours club a couple weeks ago.”
“So?”
“So I’m looking for Toby Bonner.”
“Fucking legend.” She drained her drink, held it up. “Buy me another?”
“Sure.”
I got the second moptop’s attention. “The same for the lady.”
A man with Art Garfunkel hair and a ZZ Top beard vacated the seat next to Deanna. I slid in. The drink came and I paid for it. She took a taste, nodded, said, “According to Mott, he showed up at Paoletti’s one night.”
“The Italian restaurant?”
“Upstairs from there.”
“And Mott was sure it was him?”
“He was, but he was totally wrecked.”
“How long did Toby play?”
“An hour, Mott said. But you know what happens to your time sense when you’re smoking dope.” She sized me up again. “Or do you?”
“I do. Did they know he was coming?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did anybody speak to him?”
“I don’t know that either.”
There was a lot more she didn’t know. After a while I got tired of asking her about it. I thanked her and turned to go back to my table.
“Wait,” she said.
I looked at her. “You thought of something else?”
She shook her head. “No. But I changed my mind.”
“About what?”
“About you. Let’s go someplace.”
She was trying to look fetching, her eyes hooded, her mouth barely open, her tongue darting about. It might have worked on someone else. It might have worked on me three or four years earlier.
“I meant it before,” I said. “I wasn’t trying to pick you up. I’m here with someone.”
She nodded slowly. “Figures,” she said, and swiveled back to her drink.
The pseudo-Byrds played another half hour, finishing with “So You Want To Be a Rock and Roll Star,” which turned into a psychedelic jam the likes of which I hadn’t seen since before I could vote. In a bow to modern technology, they played the trumpet part on a little Casio keyboard. They left the stage, came back when the crowd wouldn’t stop clapping, encored with “Mr. Spaceman.” After they disappeared for good ZZ Garfunkel got onstage and said there was no truth to the rumors Arthur Lee was going to be there. He said it with a stupid grin that could have meant he was leading us on and could have meant he was stoned out of his mind.
A couple of burly guys broke down the equipment and three more replaced it. The new setup had bigger amps, a keyboard setup that put Squig’s to shame, double bass drums. While they were screwing with cables I gathered everyone’s attention, told them about my conversation with Deanna—leaving out the invitation at the end—and asked if anyone knew about the club at Paoletti’s.
“I do,” Goldie said.
Woz put his arm around her shoulders, said, “My little lady.”
She accepted his kiss and turned to me. “What do you want to know?”
“What time it starts, for one thing.”
“One, two. Whenever. They don’t keep regular hours.”
“Every night?”
“They don’t keep regular days either.”
“Are they liable to be happening tonight?”
“What am I, a fucking psychic?” Some of us got the joke.
I leaned over to Gina. “You still want to go?”
“Sure.” She came closer, whispered, “You want to invite the rest of these yahoos?”
They were all arguing about whether the guy in Quicksilver Messenger Service was named Dino Valente or Gino Valente. Too bad my friend from the Aerosmith concert wasn’t around. He would have known for sure.
Back to Gina. “That’s a hell of a way to talk about my bandmates.”
“I said it with love. I was just thinking, if you wanted to do intelligence-gathering, it might be easier without Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail.”
They’d decided to settle the argument by flipping a coin. “Let’s invite them. If I’m going to be in a band with these guys, I shouldn’t be self-conscious about hanging out with them.”
ZZ mounted the stage again. He grabbed a mike, it squawked, he said, “Far out.” He had better luck on his second try. “Ladies and gents, we’re real lucky tonight to have a band which needs no introduction.”
“Then get the fuck off the stage,” Woz yelled.
“Yeah, yeah, fine,” ZZ said. “Okay, folks, here they are … the Dreidels.”
There were five of them, two guitars, keyboards, bass, drums. “Thank you, L.A.,” said the bass player, a woman in an op art minidress. The drummer banged his sticks together, counting off, and they broke into their first number.
The song was original. The vibe was thirty-five years old. You’d hear little snippets that would remind you of one band, harmonies that would recall another, a riff that would make you remember a Friday night on the high school football field when you got stoned for the first time. They had a light show too, projected on a screen that dropped down behind the stage, all swirly colors and glimmers of brightness and psychedelic eddies.
I let the music take me away.
Trick of the Light
The guys who cleaned up after the Dreidels left the drum kit and a couple of amps. A buzz went around the room. It mutated into a chant. “Ar-thur, Ar-thur, Ar-thur.” This went on until ZZ got up again and said he’d been serious before, that he didn’t have any fucking idea where Arthur Lee was. The roadies reappeared and broke down the rest of the equipment. The lights came on. Grumbling ensued. There was foot-stamping, led by Squig and Woz. Then it was just Squig and Woz. Then just Squig. Eventually he got the point and stopped banging his little Beatle boots.
“Guys,” I said, “Gina and I are going to check out Paoletti’s. Anyone want to come?”
Frampton shook his head. “Not us. I’ve got to be at work at seven.”
“What about the rest of you guys?”
“Not us,” Woz said. “We got other things to be doing. Don’t we, babe?”
Goldie gave him a pat on the cheek. “Wozzie wants some nookie, hmm?”
“And how.”
I turned to Squig. “How about you?”
“I want some nookie too.”
“I meant, do you want to go to Paoletti’s?”
“Oh. Whaddaya think, Chloe?”
“Sounds okay to me.” It was maybe the third thing she’d said all evening.
We gathered our stuff and split. Frampton and June took off in a minivan. Woz and Goldie walked off wrapped around each other like they weren’t going to wait until they got home.<
br />
I suggested the four of us drive to Paoletti’s together. Gina gathered the fabric samples inhabiting the back seat of her Volvo and dumped them in the trunk. We piled in and took off.
Paoletti’s was on Melrose, a couple of blocks east of La Brea. We were there in five minutes. I found a spot around the corner and we walked to the entrance. It was closed. The chairs were all up on the tables and the only light was a single fixture over the bar.
“Now what?” Squig said.
I pressed my face against the front window. Nothing. “Maybe there’s a secret password.”
“And a secret entrance too,” Gina said.
We all looked at each other and, without a word, trooped back around the corner and into the alley behind the place. Halfway down was a big metal door with a peephole at eye level.
I marched up and knocked. The peephole opened. There was an eye back there. “Yeah?”
“Is the club open tonight?”
“What club?” The voice was low and rumbly.
“I heard there was an after-hours club upstairs.”
“You heard wrong.”
The eyehole swung shut. I turned to the others. “That went well.”
“Maybe there is a secret password,” Gina said.
“And that would be …”
“There’s the rub.”
I rapped on the door again. The eyehole opened. “Yeah?”
“At least tell us this. Is there a secret password?”
“Dumbfuck,” he said, and his eye disappeared.
“We are so not with it,” Gina said.
We meandered away. After a few yards I ran back and banged on the door again. Again I saw the eye. “Hey,” the gatekeeper said. “It’s the dumbfuck.”
“Mott sent us,” I said.
“Why didn’t you say so?”
The door creaked open. The guard stood there, all six and a half feet and three hundred pounds of him. He had a shaved head and a shaggy beard. It looked like his face was on upside down. He took our money and said, “Hurry on up. Show’s about to start.” He picked up a National Geographic with a mummy on the cover, sat all over a barstool, flipped to his place.
We went up the stairs and into a small dim room with a low ceiling and paneled walls. There was a bar along one side. A dozen or so battered tables were scattered around, two-thirds of them full. A mixed crowd, Gen-X hipsters cheek-to-jowl with combover victims. One table was encircled by half a dozen guys who might have escaped from one of the senior homes down the road.
One Last Hit (Joe Portugal Mysteries) Page 6
