“I assume our friend didn’t take down the license plate,” said Colbert.
“No.”
“Did he catch the color of the van?”
“White.”
“Make and model?”
I shook my head. “Only that it didn’t have any windows.”
“A cargo van?”
“Be my guess.”
“Great,” said Detective Colbert, “I’ll tell my men to be on the look-out for a white, windowless van driven by a sinister, pock-marked male, who may or may not have our damsel in distress held hostage in the back.”
“Don’t forget she appears to have gone willingly.”
He chewed on that. “So she knows the guy.”
“Be my guess.”
“So she agrees to go with him wherever he asks her to go, and gets in the van, groceries and all.”
“Must have been pretty important,” I said. “For her to get in the van and leave her car.”
He nodded.
I was working on a plain cake donut; Colbert was eating a ham and cheese croissant. I was of the opinion that if you went into a donut shop, you ate donuts, not croissants. We were both drinking non-fat milk.
“How come you’re eating a plain donut?” he asked me.
“Watching my weight.”
“Why?” he asked.
“I’m auditioning today at the Pussycat.”
“For what?”
“A singer.”
“A singing detective?” He grinned at his own joke. “You any good?”
“We’ll see,” I said.
I finished my donut and sipped the non-fat milk from the carton. I had completely butchered the carton while opening it, and I was now drinking from a tattered hole. Colbert seemed to be enjoying his croissant. As he spoke to me, his eyes scanned the crowd inside the donut shop. That was a cop thing, aware of your surroundings at all times. I was aware, too, but I just didn’t care as much.
“How do we know Milton the Bum didn’t do her,” said Colbert. “And bury her body at this construction site?”
“We don’t,” I said.
“But you don’t think so.”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Your instincts as good as they say?” he asked.
“Sometimes better,” I said.
“Okay,” he said, “I’ll tell my guys to keep looking for a mysterious white van, lot of good it’ll do. You still working the case?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he said, and stood. “I can use you. You’re doing good work. What’s your next step?”
“No idea,” I said.
“Join the club.”
Chapter Thirty
I was driving west along Hollywood Blvd. The gray skies from days past were long gone, to be replaced by something hot and mean and shining down from above. Since the Cadillac’s air conditioner had broken sometime during the Carter administration, I was driving with the windows down; hell, in this heat, I would have driven with the doors off, too, if I could.
The wind whipped my dyed hair, my shades were on, and I looked about as cool as cool gets. Maybe even cooler.
I knew Hollywood, and I knew it well, which is why I chose to finish out my days here. After all, I had made many movies here, with many fond memories. Bitter memories, as well, but fond nonetheless. Also, with all the whackos, I thought for sure I could disappear in Los Angeles, and for the most part I have.
I drove with the radio on and my elbow out the window. I preferred the golden oldies of the fifties and sixties. Go figure. At the moment my radio was tuned into K-Earth, and Chuck Berry was doing his groovy thing.
As I drove, I kept beat to the song by slapping the hot sheet metal of the door. I even sang a little, although I had long ago conditioned myself to stop singing, even when alone.
And as I sang, I discovered my upper lip curling at the corner. Okay, that had to definitely stop.
I passed Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, and all the freaks were out. And so were the cartoon characters and impersonators. Spider-man was posing with an older Asian couple. The couple looked about as happy as could be. A Marilyn impersonator was blowing a passing car a kiss, and then she blew me a kiss, too. I winked at her. She winked back. It was a damn good impersonation.
And there, with his arms around an attractive young couple, mugging for the camera, was an Elvis impersonator. He was fat, and his thick sideburns were far too prominent. He was wearing aviator shades and my white rhinestone jumpsuit from the seventies.
Jesus, what the hell was I thinking back then?
I passed Grauman’s and made a right and headed up the Sunset Strip. Now Johnny Cash was on the radio, and I had nothing but fond memories of the man and his wife, June.
Still early in the day, traffic on the strip was relatively light, although that would change with the onset of night. I passed the Whiskey A-Go-Go, the Comedy Club, the Rainbow Room, and there, situated between an adult bookshop and a Chinese take-out place, was the Pussycat, owned by one of the original members of the Stray Cats.
The Pussycat Theater, which catered to a thirty-five and older crowd, was having auditions today for a new lounge singer. Elvis Presley, lounge singer extraordinaire.
I parked the Cadillac along a side street, turned the engine off, and sat in the driver’s seat for a few minutes, sweating and thinking. I asked myself again if I wanted to do this. If I really, truly wanted to do this.
I was pretty sure I did. Actually, I was damn sure. In fact, sitting here in my hot car, surrounded by beautiful homes and the world-famous clubs of the Sunset Strip, I was having a hard time remembering why I wanted out in the first place.
A decision I had made a long, long time ago.
I drummed my fingers on the hot steering wheel, which was growing hotter by the minute. Sweat beaded my brow. I used to get so damn hot on stage, sweat pouring from my body. But I loved the stage. I worked hard to entertain. No one could ever take that from me.
Yes, I very much wanted to sing again, but wasn’t the risk of getting caught too great?
One problem was that my singing voice is fairly distinctive. Perhaps too distinctive. But wouldn’t it have changed over time? My speaking voice had certainly changed over time into something far more rumbling and grittier.
Cars whipped past me, followed by a lot of hot billowing wind and spraying bits of sand and debris. Someone opened the door to the Pussycat across the street and live music thundered out, which made sense since they were in the middle of auditions.
Perhaps if I stayed away from my own songs, and sang something very unElvis, and, for the love of all that which is holy, didn’t curl my upper lip, well, I might just get away with this.
And if you don’t?
I guess I’ll just cross that bridge when I get there.
That’s a helluva bridge.
I continued drumming my fingers. Sweat continued rolling from my brow. I closed my eyes and saw the crowd and tears and smiles. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and slid off the hot leather seat, and then headed across the street to the Pussycat.
I had an audition. Elvis had an audition.
Go figure.
Chapter Thirty-one
The nightclub was small and gloomy. A young man was currently on stage, singing loudly in front of a group of people. His voice, at least to my ears, was unpleasantly loud.
I headed straight to the bar and ordered a Newcastle on tap. The young bartender nodded, poured me one, set it in front of me. I immediately knocked most of it back. The bartender watched me, raising his eyebrows. I was damned thirsty; not to mention I needed to be liquored-up asap.
The bartender leaned a hip on the counter and went back to watching the auditions. So did I. The first singer, who had pitch problems, mercifully finished and was promptly thanked. He exited the stage as another singer walked on. I couldn’t help but notice he was also in his forties.
You’re going to be the oldest one.
I drank more. Standing in a pool of yellow light, this next singer sang something by Frank Sinatra. Or maybe Tony Bennett. Hell, I couldn’t remember. I was finding it hard to concentrate. To breathe.
Huddled together on the dance floor, scribbling on clipboards, were a half dozen people. A tall man wearing blue shades wasn’t scribbling. Instead, he was standing there with his arms crossed and looking formidable.
“Okay,” he said, cutting off the singer in mid-croon. “Thank you, we’ve heard enough. We’ll give you a call.”
The man in the blue shades didn’t sound like he would ever be giving him a call. It was a brush-off, a polite goodbye. And the singer wasn’t that bad, either. Granted, he wasn’t great, but he was certainly good enough to warrant finishing the song.
Suddenly, I was loosing my nerve. I downed my beer, ordered another, drank it right there in front of the bartender, who was grinning at me.
“You must be here for the audition?” he said.
“How can you tell?”
He grinned some more. “Nervous?”
“As hell.”
He laughed. “Bill can be a real asshole,” he said, “but don’t let him get to you. If you can sing, he’ll be your best friend.”
“Good to know. He the one with the cool blue shades?”
“Yeah, that’s him, but I don’t know about cool. You can sing, right?”
“We’ll find out.”
I sat through three more auditions, all male. Most had very pleasant voices. All were clearly professionals and all were about thirty years younger than yours truly.
“You don’t think I’m too old, do you?” I asked the bartender.
He sized me up. The kid was handsome, and that grin of his probably had gotten him everything he wanted in life and more. I knew the feeling well.
“Naw, but to be safe, knock a few years off your age. No harm, no foul, right? Everyone does it. Remember that it’s all about the singing. Oh, and the performing.”
“Performing?”
“You know...” He jerked his hips a little. “Like Elvis. Bill loves Elvis.”
Oh, shit.
I nearly ordered another beer, but refrained. I performed better sober. As it stood now, I was already a little buzzed.
When the last singer stepped off the stage, Bill the Manager flipped up his cool blue shades and looked around. His slicked-back hair reflected some of the overhead lights.
“That it?” he asked no one in particular. He didn’t sound happy.
I said nothing and stayed rooted to the stool, my heart somewhere in my throat. I tried to give myself some positive self-talk, but my thoughts were scrambled and incoherent and I only knew one thing: fear. I couldn’t get myself to move. My chance was slipping away....
“Okay, then—” Bill began, but never finished.
Why? Because the good-looking kid behind the bar suddenly leaned across said bar and shouted loudly: “Hey, Bill. We’ve got another one back here.”
I didn’t know whether to hug the kid or run.
“Then get the fuck out here,” said Bill the Manager, flipping his shades back down. “Haven’t got all fucking day.”
Great, you’ve already pissed him off.
I downed the last of my beer, jumped off the stool, and promptly ran headlong into another stool. It went flying—and I nearly went flying, too. Luckily, I fell over onto a table. Yeah, luckily. Someone laughed. I heard Bill mumble “Jesus Christ”, and all I wanted to do was run for the door and get the hell out of Dodge. Or, in this case, the Pussycat.
But the bartender was there in an instant, taking my elbow, helping me to my feet, dusting me off. “It’s okay, man,” he said to me quietly. “Calm down. You’ll be okay. I’m rooting for you.”
I smiled at him weakly. He straightened my collar, winked, and guided me through the maze of chairs and stools. Buzzed, discombobulated, and now in pain, I found myself moving numbly forward toward the stage and lights.
The Pussycat, which was a fairly small nightclub, suddenly seemed expansive and endless, and the stage itself seemed to recede exponentially with each step I took.
Suddenly Bill materialized before me, looming, easily two inches taller than me. “Wait,” he said. His eyes, though mostly hidden behind the aforementioned blue shades, appeared to be searching my face. “What’s your name?”
“Aaron King,” I said. My mouth felt dry, even though I had just pounded a few beers.
He continued standing directly in front of me. Those behind him ignored me completely, their heads huddled together, referring to a master list. Already they were scratching off names.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Fifty, um, five.”
Surprisingly, he grinned. “Sure you are. Can you sing?”
“We’ll see.”
“Fine. What will you be singing?”
“‘Ring of Fire,’” I said.
“Johnny Cash.”
“Yup,” I said.
“I love ‘Ring of Fire,’” he said.
“Then you’re not so bad,” I said, “after all.”
He stared at me some more, then shook his head and chuckled and asked a young girl sitting at a piano if she knew the song, and she said, “Hell, yeah.” She sounded offended.
His blue shades settled back on me. “You’re on,” he said. “Don’t suck.”
And with those encouraging words ringing in my ears, I stepped up onto the stage, the first real stage I had been on in nearly thirty years. The wood creaked with each footfall. Stages always creak; I love that about them. Soon I stood front and center, blinking hard into the lights.
There were six of them beneath me, huddled together on the dance floor, ready to pass judgment. Beyond the dance floor, in the murky depths of the bar area, the young bartender was leaning a hip against the counter, a towel slung over his shoulder, arms crossed, watching me. He caught my eye and nodded, smiling.
Calmness radiated from the kid, a sort of infectious tranquility. So I focused on him, focused on his grin. I needed support, I needed faith, and he was the only one presently giving it to me.
God bless him.
My heart pounded.
Too hard, too fast.
The stage was semicircular. It was rutted and scraped and stained from years of amps and speakers and drums being hauled across it, from boots scraping it, from beer bottles slamming down on it.
In front of me was a single microphone stand, glowing in the single spotlight. I stepped slowly up to it. Bill checked his watch.
I clicked my fingers in front of the microphone, an old habit. The sound was good. I looked over to the young pianist. She was looking at me from over her shoulder, waiting for my cue, eager to get this show on the road. I nodded.
The music started. A simple song, really, but nearly impossible to sing right. So many have tried and so many have failed. Johnny Cash, my one-time friend, was a tough act to follow. And I should know. I followed him often enough.
And as the music started, and as I gripped the microphone in front me and looked out across the empty tables and booths and focused on that single, handsome face smilingly encouragingly at me from behind the bar, as the first words of the song rolled smoothly and easily off my tongue, and as my hips moved instinctively to the music, something amazing happened.
I had come home, and it was as if I had never left.
Chapter Thirty-two
The music stopped and I let my voice trail off. My snapping fingers dropped to my side, and my tapping foot slowed, then stopped. There were tears in my eyes and joy in my heart. Whether or not I got the gig, I didn’t care. I needed to do this. Bad.
Somebody was clapping. It was my friend from across the room, the bartender. He stopped long enough to give me a thumbs-up sign, then clapped some more.
Bill the manager was staring at me, his mouth slightly open. Well, at least I think he was staring at me. Hard to tell with those stupid shades. I was still coming down from my high and so I c
ontinued standing there on stage, in the spotlight, soaking it all in.
Now this is a high I can get used to.
Bill started nodding and he kept on nodding as he made his way to the others. He joined the group and everyone seemed to be talking at once.
As they did so, I closed my eyes and relived the moment—and it had been a helluva moment. At least for me nowadays. And as I relived this moment, the other moments flood back, too. The bigger moments. The grander moments. The crowds. The churning sea of smiling faces. God, I used to put so many smiles on so many faces. I could bring joy to others with my voice. I had forgotten about that. There’s value to bringing joy to others. Immense value.
Bill finally stepped away from the others and came over to me. He stood below me on the dance, pushed his sunglasses up onto his forehead. The upper bridge of his nose was pinched and red where the rubber stabilizers had sat for God knows how long.
“Fucking incredible,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said. Thank you. Thank you ver’ much....
“You’re a little older than what we’re looking for.”
“I understand.” My voice sounded distant and not quite my own. Only then did I notice the sweat pouring down my face.
“But we want to give you a shot. I want to give you a shot. Hell, I could listen to that—to you—all day and night. My God, King, you can sing.”
“So I don’t suck.”
He smiled. “No, you don’t. And you can move, too, for an old-timer.”
“Go figure,” I said.
“You’ll have to show me that move sometime.”
“Sure,” I said. “After you pay me.”
He laughed, and flicked down his shades again. Mr. Cool was back. “Can you be here Monday nights, starting next Monday at nine p.m.?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Good; see you then.”
And as he turned away, I said, “And Bill?”
What Happens in Vegas Page 34
