Todd said, “Yeah, look at the Crue. Tommy Lee doesn’t go feminine, just those little black smudges. See? You can do that.”
“And then what would I look like, Todd? Huh? A fucking Tommy Lee imitator. Aren’t there enough of those? We don’t need make-up. We didn’t need it in Florida.”
He got in my face. “We’re not in Florida anymore, Toto. You wanna go back? I’m sure there’ll be ten drummers lined up—”
I stepped back. Usually I’d shove him. I was tired of shoving him.
“Why is it that every fucking time we disagree, you act like I’m quitting? Or are you threatening to fire me? Who the hell says you can?”
“Try me,” Todd said.
Sylvia clicked her heels across the room and pulled Todd away. “Stop it. Look, no one’s quitting.” She turned to me. “And no one is firing you. We can’t do it without you. There is no band without you four. You make it special.”
I nodded, still fuming. “Special enough that we don’t need goddamned make-up.”
Todd threw up his hands and headed for the door. “I’m taking a walk.”
The thing is, I didn’t hate Sylvia or her ideas most of the time—total opposite, in fact. She was smarter than all of us, the only one with an associate’s degree while the rest of us gradually floated out of school. She was even taking a class in public relations at UCLA. It was a fucking risk coming out here with us to sink or swim, but she did it. She had my full respect.
Todd, on the other hand, was more of an asshole every day, and for that I fought him long and hard, trying to keep his pedestal low enough to knock him off when needed.
Sylvia watched me, waited.
I said, “I’m not saying he shouldn’t wear it. I’m saying why does the whole band need it? The gimmick bands come and go.”
“I know.” Arms still crossed, she leaned her shoulder into my chest. I pulled her to me, rested my cheek on her hair, stiff and smelling like peppermint. “He gets like that, wants to make it all for one, one for all.”
“Sounds good on paper, but it’s still all about him.”
Her arms unraveled, one hand crept around my back. She was warm, small. I wanted to hold her, protect her. Todd was a blowhard, but he didn’t deserve me cheating with Sylvia. Still, what he didn’t know…
She said, “Don’t say that. He cares about this band. You know he does.”
“I care more.”
She lifted her head, lips searching for mine. I kissed her hard, too hard, like I wanted her to know who cared more about things than Todd did. I’m the one, babe.
Time proved I was a fucking liar.
11
New Orleans, 2004
My mental alarm clock had nothing to do with me waking up. Someone shook me and said, “Mr. Johnson,” loud and firm.
I sat up and saw blurry blurs in triplicate trying to get focused. A hand steadied me and said, “Easy, guy. You all right?”
I cleared my throat. “I will be.”
Hard to place the voice. It wasn’t Justin. Wasn’t Beth, of course. I closed my eyes tightly until the spinning stopped. When I could focus, I saw the voice belonged to a Chinese guy in his thirties, sharp dresser in designer jeans, shirt, and navy sport coat. He held out his shield with one hand, held his other one free—at the ready for a gun grab? “I’m Detective Hsieh, New Orleans Police.”
I yawned. “You didn’t knock.”
“The light was on and the door was open, thought maybe you just didn’t hear me.”
“I didn’t hear it.”
“I suppose you didn’t.” He held up my plastic bottle of codeine, then pointed at my hand. “What happened?”
“I grabbed an apple from the French Market, ate it while I was walking through the Quarter. Pocketknife.”
“Can’t walk and chew gum? Something like that?”
I grinned. “Stepped off a curb, hit a crack.”
“Where’s the knife?”
“Left it at my girlfriend’s house. She took me to the ER. I’m all stitched up.”
Hsieh stood over me, arms crossed, pouring on intimidation.
“Good thing you got it taken care of.”
I glanced at my watch. Only fifteen minutes until I was supposed to meet Justin. “You need something? There might be some Coke in the kitchen. No ice, though. I’ll need to leave soon.”
“We heard you might have been drinking last night with Todd Delacroix. We asked the bartender, and he didn’t know the name, but the description fit. He pointed me your way.”
Way to go Justin. “Yeah, I knew him from Florida. He surprised me, showed up in town.” Not quite a lie yet.
I stood and stretched, thought for a moment he was going to take me down—those cop reflexes—but I eased past him down the short hall to the kitchen. He followed. Lucky that Justin had a bottle of Coke. It looked out of place in a kitchen with stainless steel everything, professional enough to impress any chef in town. I held up the bottle, but he declined. I needed a sugar blast, so I twisted the cap off and took a swig. Flat as the floor.
“Seriously,” I said, shook my watch. “What do you need to know? I can be a little late.”
Hsieh nodded and held a hand towards the table, looking like an Agatha Christie PBS cop, except Hsieh was an Asian guy in denim. “Have a seat?”
I straddled one of the barstools at the island. Hsieh stood on the other side. He pulled out a small notepad and pen. Hsieh opened to a full page of notes and scanned through with his finger, finally tapping a phrase.
He said, “I don’t know how to tell you this, but Todd Delacroix died this morning.”
I realized I had forgotten to ask why he was interested in me drinking with Todd anyway. “I heard earlier. Probably why I was so clumsy with the knife. That’s a shock, man.”
“Did you visit his hotel?”
“What?”
“The desk clerk described a guy who looks like you, said you were an agent,” he said.
I shrugged. “Not really.”
“Explain.”
“He asked if I was Todd’s agent, and I said Todd had many agents. Let the kid believe what he wants.”
The detective grinned, pretended to write on his pad. “So who the hell are you?”
“I met him in college, back in Florida. We bumped into each other at a club last night, went drinking, and said we’d meet up for breakfast today.”
“Why not just tell the desk guy that?”
I spread my elbows on the surface. “They train these guys to be like ice, you know? Don’t let anyone get to the famous guests, all that. Bullshit pose, so I had to pull one myself.”
“You called for the ambulance?”
Shit. “Yeah, yeah. I didn’t want to be there in all that, you know? Just some guy I used to know.”
“Unbelievable. That he’s dead, I mean.” the detective said. “I loved his band. Savage Night. Those guys rocked.”
“Too loud for me,” I said.
“The louder, the better. It rumbled through your bones, man.” He played air guitar. “I was playing their songs from the first day I picked up an ax. Most of the hair metal shit, easy to learn. Warrant? Winger? Dokken? Now, Savage Night was trying to push things forward.”
“It didn’t last.”
He brushed it off. “Times changed. But real rock still rocks. I looked at that guy on the bed and thought this was some sort of curse.”
“Excuse me?”
“Their drummer disappeared about ten, twelve years ago. At first they thought he’d accidentally burned his own house down, probably drunk, but they didn’t find any of him. A lot of people think he didn’t really die. Or maybe somebody else started the fire and stole the body. It’s creepy.”
I shook my head. “We watched a band, then had a few drinks. We split up, and he went one way, I went the other.”
“Why the gay bar?”
A flinched eyebrow, slight push of his lips. Jesus, there’s a piece of info that would not only get looke
d into—what was Todd Delacroix doing in a gay bar?—but that would also get the press after me, too. Not a good way to keep a low profile.
“It wasn’t like that,” I said.
“Like what?”
“I took him there to rile him up, that’s all. To watch his reaction, and the bartender’s a friend of mine.”
“Justin, right?”
The night before, Justin seemed to recognize Todd. After the cops talked to him, I wondered how long before he put it together. This was getting worse by the second.
“I go fishing with him sometimes, whatever. Todd wasn’t gay.”
“You knew him well enough to say?”
“I guess so.” I checked my watch, stared a second too long. The detective waited. “I need to make a call if this’ll take a while. I’m running late.”
Hsieh whistled low. “Fine, fine.” He looked around the kitchen, nodded towards the front room. “You like antiques, I guess.”
I nodded as much as I could with my chin resting on my arms, watching the table as he spoke. “Are we done?”
“You met up with him on Bourbon?”
Don’t get trapped. “No, over on Frenchman, but he was leading us back to Bourbon. I figured he didn’t make it to the city often, so where else would he start, right?”
“The hotel said Mr. Delacroix got in very late, sometime after three.”
“Maybe. I don’t remember. He could’ve gone for more after I left.”
That got a finger pointed my way. Hsieh barked a laugh and said, “Yes! Exactly what I’m thinking here. So here’s a question—who else was with him? Someone took his car, by the way. Can’t find it anywhere.”
They knew about the broken glass. Of course they did. My mind flashed on, Cameras? Did they have camera surveillance? Tapes? I wondered how much they weren’t telling me. If they saw me on tape, this talk was just the detective having a little fun.
“What about the keys?” I said. “Did he leave them in the car? His room?”
Hsieh gave me full glare now—make or break. “We can’t find the keys.”
“Shit.” I rubbed my chin across my arm. This was either a test, in which case I was leaving in cuffs, or one of their hunches, in which case I’d have to look over my shoulder for a few more days.
I changed subjects. “Been in New Orleans long?”
He looked puzzled.
“Your accent. I mean, it’s pretty natural but still not local.”
“I was born in Lake Charles. My dad worked for a chemical plant over there. My friends and I used to drive back and forth all the time. I moved here six years ago. It’s magnetic.”
“I’m with you there.”
Hsieh said, “You’re from a lot farther away than me, though.”
A challenge to see how much I’d give. He had already pegged me as too clever for my own good.
I said, “Dallas, Texas, born and raised until I was fifteen. Mom divorced Dad, and off we went to Florida.”
“You sound like New Orleans, though,” he said.
I shrugged, felt a muscle twinge, rubbed my shoulder. “I try. I love the city and I want to fit in, so I soak up the voices.”
He nodded. “And the spices? The drag queens?”
He wasn’t going to let that angle go. I said, “I’m open-minded.”
We went through my story a few times, and I tried to keep from tapping my foot or slapping rhythms on the table. Jesus, that was tough. I was only eighty percent successful, thinking of the double snare strike on the upbeat that defines the New Orleans rock sound—lifting a Zydeco dance rhythm and playing blues on top. I’d heard a local band, the Subdudes, that blew me away. Turned out they were originally from Colorado, which goes to show how anyone could become a native if they were true believers.
Hsieh sat, hands rolling his pen back and forth on his palms. “You don’t seem sad.”
“I am, though I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Meaning?”
I slumped, shrugged, shapeless. “You had to see him last night to know. All uptight, not the same guy I partied with way back. Things haven’t been good for him since that band split up, I guess.”
“He didn’t say anything to you? Did he seem worn out?”
“Probably. That makes sense. I was drinking, he was drinking, and people filter things differently when they’re half in the bag, right? He wanted to hit a couple places, but his heart wasn’t in it.”
Hsieh bobbed his head. He said, “Sorry about your friend. We’ll give you a call if we need more, but you can take off now.”
“Yeah do that,” I said. Stayed in the seat until Hsieh stood, not wanting to appear too eager. “I want to know what you find out.”
We shook hands, and we eased our way towards the front door. He took a quick last look in my eyes before heading for the stairs. Everything was bullshit. I was the prime suspect.
“Hey, you’d better find those goddamned keys,” I shouted after him. “Could be more to this than we’re thinking.”
Hsieh tossed a wave over his shoulder. I interpreted that as Wrong answer, asshole.
12
The Quarter was nearly deserted, midweek only bringing out the off-season types and the regulars, the opportunists. The weekend would bring a flood of people for the annual Grambling & Southern game, plus there was always a conference or two gumming up the works. Seemed colder than I remembered most Novembers here to be, but still my favorite time of the year in town. The chill made the neon glow differently, I swear. Kinda frosty, cloudy. Might have been the pills blurring things for me.
With my head all fucked with dope and sleep, the walk to Justin’s bar did me good. My stomach growled and I wanted something to eat. I flashed on memories of going without food except for whatever was laid out backstage on concert night, the time in-between shows filled with cheap beer, expensive bourbon, and pills. Jesus, I was rail thin, never hungry. Flip that with New Orleans—less pills, slightly less liquor, and the pounds sneaking on weekly from the po’ boys and muffalettas. As long as Beth didn’t mind. Hell, she was usually right alongside eating them with me. Give me a woman who eats without guilt and I’ll show you raw sexuality. Too bad it was “look, don’t touch” so far.
A stiff breeze off the river woke me up as I walked a few blocks past a pastry shop, a skateboard shop, hole-in-the-wall bars, crap apartments that cost a fortune. More traffic noise than music. I sidestepped garbage piles and empty cardboard boxes left on the curb.
At Bourbon, I saw the rainbow flags draping a few balconies, the music audible but contained, doors and shutters closed to the cold. Justin’s place—no sign, but I’d heard him call it “Intensity” once or twice—seemed a contradiction. Old style Spanish/Caribbean architecture outside, chrome, chains, and Euro-trance beats inside. The club was pretty busy. A lot of regulars came most nights to “fish & fuck”, half-hour stands. They run out of condoms, they keep going, Russian Roulette-style. Like I had any better sense back in the Eighties, the only difference being I fucked skanks in short skirts, any girl with dark hair. The other guys could have the blondes. In Justin’s place, the guys favored sculptured muscles on small frames. Reminded me of Pete Townsend’s “Rough Boys” tune.
I squeezed through, the techno bass hitting my bad ear so that I felt like I was in a tunnel. Justin was behind the bar at the far end, in an old LSU sweatshirt and broken-down jeans, leaning close to a customer on a stool. The guy was Hulk but white, bald and waxed. He wore a long suede coat and a silk shirt. I’d never seen Justin quite like this, actually affectionate with another man.
I eased nearby, leaned on the bar, and stared Justin down until I caught his eye. He gave me an odd look, like a dismissal. What, I was getting in the way of his hooking up? I glanced at my watch. Nine-thirty. I wasn’t all that late. So I drummed my good fingers on the bar, waited patiently. I kept my bandaged hand in my jacket pocket, and curling those fingers didn’t feel cozy. A minute passed. Two, three. I glanced out at the bar, found
a few guys nodding my way but I didn’t acknowledge them. The music was pure British bass-and-drum, all dark and moody. Four minutes.
I turned to Justin again. Still in the same spot. Another bartender, young MTV type, handled most of the orders. Justin was on the make. He flicked his eyes every few seconds, keeping me in the peripheral.
I pushed off the bar and made the distance to Justin in three steps.
“You got a problem with me?” I said, leaning over, bumping the bald guy a little, his spicy cologne like pepper spray.
Justin sighed. “I’m busy right now, see?”
“Fuck busy. You know what I mean.”
The bald guy spoke up. “He said we’re busy here. You mind?”
I stood full height and said, “Justin and I need to talk. You go find someone else. Plenty of fish, etc.”
“I’m not going anywhere. You are.” He wanted to throw down right there.
Justin rubbed the guy’s arm and said, “Look, it’s not what you think. Give me a few minutes with Merle here.”
The bald guy’s mouth hung open, eyes burned into Justin. “You’re kidding.”
“Just a few minutes, okay?” Justin’s rough voice smoothed out talking to this guy. Almost like a whole other person.
The bald guy gave me the once over, then stared off into space before he brushed past me and drifted through the crowd.
I took his seat. “That’s your type, J?”
Justin held his lips thin.
“Hey, I got held up. I’m not too late, really.”
“You think I’m pissed over that?” he shouted, the anger reaching me through the bass on the house speakers.
“Then what the hell? Not over Mr. I’m Too Sexy back there, I mean, c’mon.”
He shook his head. “You going to tell me who you were with last night? I’ve already heard, but I’d like to hear it from you.”
“What do you mean? Like I said—”
“Jesus, Merle, the cops?”
I closed my eyes. “Please.”
His teeth worked his bottom lip, trying to decide if I was giving him an act. He was one person I needed to trust me, and he caught me crying wolf. After what seemed forever, he moved down the bar, brought me a beer. I took a slow drink, a slight numbness sweeping through me soon as it hit my stomach. I’d forgotten that feeling, missed it.
The Drummer Page 6
