“I’m a little stunned.”
“Why should you be stunned?”
“I’ve gone around all this time being so proud of myself for running away from home and not ending up dead or worse. And after all these years I find out my parents arranged the whole thing. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“It never came up. Plus, you know, like we talked about a little while ago. I wasn’t comfortable.”
“Do you know I’ve also spent all these years thinking Mom dying so young was at least partially my fault?”
“I suspected.”
“You suspected?”
“I’m not the only one who hasn’t told the other a lot about his life. And besides, when I got out, you were mostly over it. Or hiding it.”
He was right. The guilt was overwhelming when I first moved home. Then time did its thing, and the guilt diminished until I could bury it under a mental rock. Always there, not often considered.
“Did Elaine know any of this?”
He shook his head, then checked the cuckoo clock one more time. “Now I really got to get going. Look at these fingernails. You think I ought to shave? I shaved this morning, but you know my beard. Like steel wool. Yes. I should shave. I want a smooth face for Mary Elizabeth, you know what I mean?”
Was my father leering? This was a bit disconcerting. “Just a couple more questions, Dad. Did—”
He held up a hand. “Not now. Another time, we’ll talk more. We’ll talk a lot more now, won’t we?”
“I guess we will.”
“I got to say, I’m happy about that.”
“Me too.”
“Good. Now get your tuchis out of here and let me make myself handsome.”
Café of 1000 Dances was five minutes from my father’s place, on the strip of Melrose that used to be the West Coast headquarters of hip. I didn’t have change for a meter and everything for a block on either side of Melrose was permit parking. I left the truck on Clinton and hiked back. The breeze was up and the jacarandas were shedding. Spent lavender blossoms lay everywhere. I could smell an orange tree somewhere around.
Outside the café two young women in black gave me the once over. They saw I wasn’t worth their valuable time and went back to their conversation. An old man in a gray beret sat with a sketchpad, drawing what was on the next table over, a collection of salt and pepper shakers set up like bowling pins. The headpin was a bottle of Tabasco sauce.
There was a juke box just inside the entrance, playing the Searchers’ “Needles and Pins.” I scanned the offerings. The Zombies and Charlie Pride, the Sex Pistols and Barry Manilow, No Doubt and Vic Damone. There were framed 45s all over the walls. The nearest was “I Got Caught in the Washing Machine” by someone named Johnny Shur. “Hey Jude” was next over.
They had a row of purple vinyl booths, some Formica tables, a long counter. The young woman behind the counter wore a tight T-shirt advertising the place. She had a pencil behind her ear and hair piled up on top of her head like waitresses since time immemorial. “Anywhere,” she said.
I slid into a booth. Another snug-shirted babe, this one blond, came by with a menu. I sent her off for an iced tea and checked my watch. A little after five. I was way early. I spotted a pile of New Times and got up to get one. Knee-jerk liberal stuff, but not as bad as the Weekly, and it didn’t come off on your fingers. The waitress came back with my tea and asked if I was ready to order. I told her I was waiting for someone and she went away. I tasted the tea. It wasn’t bad for that mango stuff.
I sat back and watched what was going on. I’d expected a crowd of self-conscious fake hipsters. There were some of those, but there were some real hipsters too. The couple at the next table, deconstructing the latest art-house movie: fake. The buzz-cut woman at the counter, reading Kierkegaard: real. I can’t explain the difference. I just know them when I see them.
I read my rag and got caught up on the latest municipal scandal. After twenty minutes I ordered a piece of blueberry pie. That kept me going until Woz showed up at six. On the way to the booth he stopped to say hi to the woman behind the counter. She asked how he was doing and he said, You know. He said, You? and she said Red had gone back to Portland. He told her that was too bad, she said, Thanks, he said she’d find someone else. She smiled like she didn’t think it was true and Woz finished his trip to the table.
“Poor kid,” he said as he sat opposite me. “Don’t know how to pick ’em.”
“Like you said, the right guy will come along.”
“Who said anything about guys? Chick’s a lesbo.”
“Then the right girl will come along.”
“You got anything against lesbos?”
“No, Woz, I don’t have anything against lesbos.”
“Some of my best friends are lesbos.”
“Mine too. Can we stop with the lesbos?”
He picked up a menu and immediately tossed it aside. “They got great grilled cheese.” He turned, caught our waitress’s eye. “Hey, Rhonda. Get us a couple of grilled cheeses over here, and some O-rings. And coffee and a root beer.”
He faced me again, looked me over. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I think so. I just found out something I really didn’t expect.”
“What’s that?”
I told him about my conversation with my father. His root beer and coffee came and he alternated between them as he listened. Our sandwiches showed up. Woz was right. The best grilled cheese in memory, even better than Bonnie’s.
I finished the story, and we killed our sandwiches. Woz leaned back, stifled a belch, said, “Your old man and mine. Who would’ve known?”
“You didn’t?”
“No idea. What was yours up for?” Something I’d left out.
“Does it matter?”
“What, it was murder or something? The look on your face. It was.”
“I don’t think he did it.”
He nodded like he was humoring me, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, said, “Want to know what I found out?”
“Yeah.”
“Nothing.”
“Heavy, man.”
“Yeah, I asked around, everyone I knew. Then I had everyone I knew ask everyone they knew. Nothing. No one knows why these guys are shooting up half the band.”
Duh.
“Hey,” Woz said. “‘Smoke on the Water.’ I never get tired of that one. Why you looking at me like that?”
“What you just said. About shooting up the band.”
“What about it?”
“I’ve been assuming all the shooting is about you and Squig. What if it actually has to do with the band?”
“Why would someone want to fuck up our band?”
“I don’t know. But don’t you think it’s worth pursuing?”
“Like how?”
“Like—” Good question. Which of my celebrated investigatory techniques was I going to put into play? “I don’t know. Maybe we should talk to Bonnie, see if she has any ideas. Someone who wouldn’t want her to record again, though if that were the case I would think they’d go after her instead. Because you can always get new musicians.”
“Hey, thanks a lot.”
“And here’s another thought. Maybe we should warn some people.”
“Like Frampton, you mean.”
“And Gina and Goldie and anyone else whose place someone might think we were at.”
“You’re a little crazy here.”
“Maybe. But it doesn’t hurt to be careful. You got Frampton’s number?”
He pulled out his wallet. “Son of a bitch has business cards. Fucking weird.” He found the card and tossed it across the table.
I slid out of the booth and found the pay phone in the back by the restrooms. I dialed Gina’s number. A girlish voice said, “Vela residence.”
It took me a second. “Aricela?”
“Is that Joe? Hi, Joe. When are you coming home?”
It was home already. How nice. “I’m not sure. Put G
ina on, would you?”
“Okay. But come soon.”
I heard her yell, “Gina,” and a few seconds later a couple of words back and forth. Then Gina came on. “Hi.”
“Do me a favor. Stay there.”
“What do you mean?”
“There. In the condo. And make sure the door is locked. And the windows.”
“I live on the third floor. You really think I need to lock the windows to prevent whoever it is you’re warning me about from coming in through them? And who are you warning me about?”
“We think all this shooting might have something to do with the band.”
“Why would that be? And who’s ‘we’?”
“Woz and me. I’m just being cautious. But I’d feel more comfortable if you didn’t go out.”
“But we were going to go see Ice Age. “
“Put it off. Find a movie on cable. Or have those Kosmo.com people deliver one.”
“Kosmo went under months ago.”
“Cable, then. Just do it, okay? And I’ll be over later.”
“Aricela will be disappointed.”
“Life in the big city. And tomorrow we really have to do something about her.”
“I know.” Her tone told me she didn’t know, not at all.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be over as soon as I can. Love you, babe.”
“Love you too.”
That word again. It was tripping off our tongues like we’d been saying it for years.
I dialed the home number that was handwritten on the back of Frampton’s card.
“Yeah.”
“Frampton?”
“Who’s this?”
“Joe.”
“Oh, hey. Look, I can’t talk, we got a situation here.”
“What kind of situation?”
“Someone on the block called the cops about a car parked in front of their house. Cops showed up, the car took off, the cops went after it. Look, I can’t—”
“What kind of car?” I said.
“It was a Beetle,” Frampton said. “A silver Beetle.”
Had Enough
I hung up and told Woz what was happening.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“So you can shoot up Frampton’s neighborhood too?”
“If I have to.” He threw some money on the table on the way out. Fifteen seconds later we were at the Barracuda. It was right there on Stanley. Permit parking didn’t concern Woz.
We ran several stop signs on the way, used the shoulder to skirt a tie-up on the 405, hit eighty-five on the Marina Freeway. Nineteen minutes after we left, Woz pulled to the curb on a residential street off Alla. A cop car was double-parked at the end of the block. Woz turned off the engine and told me to get out.
“What for?”
“So you can go see what’s going on.”
“Why don’t you go see what’s going on?”
“Look at me. Look at you. Who’s gonna get the cops’ attention?”
I got out, crossed the street, and meandered a few houses down, until I could see all the cars near the end of the block. Frampton and two county cops stood on his front walk, with a few neighbors hanging around to view the excitement.
I went back and made my report.
“Good job,” Woz said.
“Thank you, Fearless Leader. Now what?”
“Now we wait.”
“For what?”
“For the cops to leave.”
I climbed back in. Woz started up an Iron Butterfly cassette. We were deep into the interminable drum solo in “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” when the cop car passed by. Woz popped the cassette. We got out and walked down the block. Frampton was still out front, wearing droopy shorts and a tank top, filling the neighbors in. He saw us coming, looked surprised, recovered quickly. When we reached his house he hustled us inside. He did have a dog, a little white yappy thing.
As soon as the door closed Woz said, “What happened?”
“What happened?” Frampton said. “I’ll tell you what happened. We had a goddamned high-speed chase right here in our neighborhood. Jesus, guys.”
“Any shooting?” I said.
“No, thank God. There’s lots of kids around here. I guess the guys in the Beetle saw the cops coming. They pulled out into the street and almost ran over a kid on a bike. Then they went squealing around the corner. The cops went after them. Sirens, the whole works. He turned on Woz. “This is your fault.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“This is a nice neighborhood.”
“So what?”
“So you and your hood friends are fucking things up.”
“What do you mean? I didn’t have nothing to do with this.”
“Bullshit.”
“Look, I been trying to find out who these guys are and why they’d be after me and Squig. And I can’t find out. And I know people, and they can’t find out either. And then these characters showing up here means to me that something Joe thought could be right. That this is about the band. Which means it ain’t my fault.”
“Doesn’t make any difference.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m out. Take your rock and roll revival and stick it up your ass.”
“Frampton. Calm down, man.”
“I am calm. You hear me yelling?”
“We’re gonna take care of this.”
“Get out.”
“Hey, Frampton—”
“Didn’t you hear me? Get your sorry ass out of here. And take actor boy here with you.”
“Frampton,” I said. “Look, I know you’re upset, but—”
“Joe,” he said.
“Uh-huh?”
“Shut up.”
“But—”
“Just shut up and get the fuck out.”
“But—”
“You don’t have children, do you?”
“No, but—”
“If you had kids you’d understand. Now get out.”
I followed orders. So, surprisingly, did Woz. “He’ll come around,” he said. We walked back to the Barracuda. Woz sat there, flexing his hands on the wheel. “Guess I ought to get you back.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you.”
“What about?”
“You really think he’ll come around. He’ll forget this whole thing, thugs parked in front of his house with a street full of kids all around. You really think that.”
“Uh-huh.”
“How can you think that? You know, he’s not the only one ready to quit.”
“What the fuck you mean?”
“I mean I’m about done with it too.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m not? What, you’re going to beat me up to make me stick around? Go ahead. Beat me up. I don’t care. I’ve got a girlfriend to think of. One who nearly got shot the other night. And a family.”
“What family? You ain’t even married.”
“I’ve got a father and a surrogate aunt and uncle and a cousin with a husband and kids of their own.” Come to think of it, it wasn’t much of a family. “Who knows who these assholes will go after next?”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.”
He fired up the car, and we headed back to West Hollywood. Neither of us said a word until we were a couple of blocks from Café of 1000 Dances and Woz asked where my truck was. I told him, and he pulled in at the curb behind it. I undid my seatbelt before we got there, had the door open before we’d stopped.
“Wait,” Woz said.
“Wait for what?”
“You’re not gonna do this.”
“Why not?”
“‘Cause you got rock and roll in your blood.”
What do you say to a statement like that? Just what I said. Nothing.
He shrugged. “Don’t believe me. You’ll find out. You’re not gonna throw this band away. Not you, and not Frampton neither.”
“You just go on thinking that.” I completed my exit and walked to th
e truck. The Barracuda thundered to life. It pulled from the curb and even with me. Woz leaned over the passenger seat. “Give it a little time. You’ll see.” He sat up and roared away.
“Yeah, Woz, keep on believing that.”
I got in the truck, turned over the engine, and sat there. Poor deluded Woz. Not believing I’d had enough of the Platypuses. Not believing that I was going to drop the whole thing, the nostalgia, the music, the dreams of concert-hall glory. Not believing I thought it more important to protect my loved ones. Boy, was he mistaken.
But if he was so wrong, why was I still planning on keeping my appointment with Deanna?
I caught Bonnie at the office and told her about the creeps showing up at Frampton’s. I said I thought we could all be in danger.
“I’ve got security people here who I can press into service,” she said. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be safe.”
“Have them keep an eye on Darren too, if they can.”
“Sure.”
“By the way, Frampton quit.”
“He can’t.”
“He did.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“Figured you’d say that. Maybe you ought to talk to me too.”
“Not you too.”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“Don’t do anything right now. Not until we work through this shooting business.”
“All right, I guess.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
I don’t think she believed me, but she was kind enough not to mention it.
Cobwebs and Strange
Deanna lived in a three-story apartment building on the outskirts of the seediest part of Yucca. I parked a block away and tried to ignore the shapes looming in the shadows. I pressed the button next to the nameplate that said Festerling and Knox. A couple seconds later Deanna came on and buzzed me in.
I took the stairs to the second floor. She was standing outside her door, dressed in a skimpy yellow tank top and jeans. Sounds of battle blasted into the hall. When I went in I confirmed that they came from the TV. Men running around, explosions, blood. It could have been any of hundreds of movies. The noise erupting from the stereo speakers was as loud as I imagined real warfare to be.
The apartment had white walls and cottage cheese ceilings and one-step-up-from-the-cheapest carpet. It smelled of cigarettes and disinfectant and old marijuana. The furniture was dull and aged, Herculon upholstery and fake wood tables. There were a couple of travel posters on the walls, along with cheesy reproductions of modern art and the same Hendrix poster Woz had, coming loose at the same corner.
One Last Hit (Joe Portugal Mysteries) Page 16
