The door gave way, and I hopped to keep from falling. Alison eased into the hall, stood in front of me and rested her head on my chest.
She said, “I don’t know if I want to yell at you or jump you.”
I couldn’t help but grin. “Both?”
“Don’t talk. It doesn’t help your case.”
I followed her down the hall to the restrooms. She moved her head in a ‘come hither’ and pushed through the men’s room door. I was a step behind.
Three other men in the room, two at urinals and one at the sink, an odd look on his face. Alison slithered by him and ducked into the last stall. I was still a step behind.
Then I was there, locking the stall, her hands already working my belt buckle.
“Ali, come on.”
“Shut up. If not you, I’ll grab one of those roadies. I need it, okay? Something, anything.”
“We shouldn’t do this.”
I let her keep going. I wondered about all the groupies I’d fucked when numb on Valium. Enough. In that moment, I wanted to be the man and not be taken for a ride, not give Ali any more ammo to hate me with. Maybe start over with her, rebuild a friendship that was blasted away years before.
Then she had my zipper down, hands yanking at my briefs. I helped her. My hands, her jeans, fumbling. She slapped my hand away and did it herself, jeans and panties off in one go. She pushed me onto the toilet and straddled me.
“I need a kiss,” she said.
We sucked the air out of each other. Alison rode me so hard I had to bite my lip to keep from letting go right there, all sobered up and feeling every moment. She worked me like she’d mastered every Cosmo article she ever read—got my number on what it takes to finish a guy off.
Eye to eye, her breath turning to animal grunts, my hands holding her waist. All about the urge, because she broke the kiss. Couldn’t think of anything except how she had me on a leash. I thought I’d broken it, but one yank and here I was again.
“You better not come,” she whispered hard in my ear.
“I can’t help it.”
“You better not.”
“Jesus, Ali, I can’t fucking help it.”
“Not until I get what I need. Keep it up, keep it up, keep it up.” She was keeping the rhythm, telling me how to do her, speed it up or slow down. She slammed hard with every stroke. “You’re not going anywhere.”
I tried to think of how much I hated her.
It didn’t help.
“Not until I get mine,” she said.
Another yank on the metaphorical leash. I felt it like a real leather strap. I gave her all I had. I wanted Ali to be proud of me. It took closing my eyes, thinking about Doug, wondering how we would keep this a secret. Moved in and out of Alison robotically until her grunts ratcheted up in pitch, the same sounds as before. I opened my eyes to find hers staring back, the most alive and sexual and frightening I’d ever seen. I couldn’t hold out any longer. I had a full body spasm while I watched her lips curl into a Joker’s smile.
We sat tangled, sweaty, suddenly cold, her hands and head on my shoulders.
“What now?” I whispered.
“You have a show to do. I’m along for the ride from now on, taking care of Doug.”
“What about us?”
She hummed a sad note and then, in quiet sweet tones, “There is no us. I told you, if it wasn’t you, I’d have fucked someone else.”
“Come on, that didn’t mean anything?”
The hum became a laugh. She patted my cheek. “Oh, it was nice. Of course it meant something. I’m glad it was you. But that’s the end of it. Call it ‘maintenance sex’ if you want. It was what I needed. Not you, not us.”
“Please, Ali—”
“I’m not talking about it.”
She climbed off my lap, every part of me still aching. She squirmed back into her clothes and opened the stall door, walked past whistles and “Oh yeahs.”
I pulled up my pants, limped out of the stall and saw a crowd of at least twenty men, mostly tech and building crew. Someone had spread the word—Cal was getting some in the men’s room. Soon as I poked my head out, they began cheering, applauding, singing “Way to go” and “Cheeky bastard.” They thought Ali was another notch on my gun. Turned out I was one on hers.
The door banged open and Todd walked in like John Wayne, head darting around before finding me and shooting this look like he wanted to bite my ear off. “Would you hurry the fuck up? We’ve got to get on stage! What the hell’s wrong with you?”
Then he was gone. Good thing. If he’d stayed still, I would’ve choked him to death.
*
Yeah, he was late, but he fucking delivered. I hated him for it. Outside the bus, I beat him until he was bruised. The bastard laughed while I did it, too drunk or high or dizzy to fight back or care. Roadies tried to pull me off, but I kept at it. Todd on the ground, rolling, laughing, my boot in his gut, gashing his eyebrow, cracking his nose. I did it until I couldn’t break free from the techs anymore, until one of Todd’s entourage grabbed me by the back of the neck and led me to the curb and dropped me there.
I caught a cab, found a pub twenty miles away, an old timers place. It felt nice to be unrecognized, and maybe that’s where the seed was planted for me—no dying friend, psycho ex, pompous ass singer, heartbreak. I took a pint of John Courage to the pay phone and called Sylvia collect.
“Good show?” she asked, hiding the surprise at hearing from me. Jesus, her cold heart.
“Listen…” I couldn’t say it.
“This better not be what I think it is.”
“I miss you.”
“Exactly what I thought it was. I’m busy here. Unless you’ve got a real problem, I can’t do this now.”
“Wait.” I glanced around the bar, no one paying me attention except the few challenging stares you’ll get in any pub once they hear the accent. I grumbled a little, “Problem’s with Doug. You have to promise me something. Right now. I need you to keep a lid on what I’m about to say no matter what. It’s for you and me and Doug only.”
“Fine, fine. Doug?”
I told her.
Ten minutes later, she was still crying. I was damn near crying myself, something I couldn’t do with Alison. Sylvia’s reaction was the one I wanted. I needed a soft landing, a shoulder, and there it was as if I’d never thrown her out of my hotel room that night.
“Todd?” she said.
I sighed, cleared my throat. “No clue on both counts. We keep it that way.”
“Of course, if that’s what Doug wants.” Her voice was already leaning towards a manager’s smooth trickery. “But he needs to know it’s a new world. Hiding this only makes it worse. We need to go to the world, arms open.”
“I’m not playing PR games with my friend’s life. You don’t tell a soul, and you need to start a plan in case any of it gets out. Total blackout, understand? I’m the client, you’re the manager, so do what I say.”
“I want to talk to Doug.”
“Fine. Call him.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing.” Cold.
I got the picture. The Sylvia I wanted was right beneath the surface, breaking through like she did on hearing the news. Doug was her friend, too, and she felt oceans of pain, I could tell. Same as me. The difference was that the instant she broke through the icy crust, it started freezing back again. Angles, press concerns, spin, subzero, cryogenic, and Sylvia was gone.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” I spit her own words back at her. “I’m really busy and I can’t do this right now. Keep your mouth shut and get back to work, baby.”
I hung up the phone, downed most of the pint in one swallow and slammed the glass on top of the phone.
“Hey!” the bartender shouted. “That’s the only phone we’ve got, you bastard. Go muck up your own flat.”
Without thought, I slung the glass across the room, over the bar, shattering a bottle of scotch, tipping over others. Several of the
men stood up, big working class muscles that had been waiting for an excuse.
I flipped them off and said, “Here’s a big ‘fuck you’ American style. Come and get me.”
They pounded me good, bloodied my nose and bruised my back. Kicked in the kidneys, the head, the chest. These guys knew how to do it—not enough to kill me, but they wanted me to remember this tomorrow. I’m sure I got in a few jaw punches and shin kicks, but that wasn’t why I took them on.
I needed to feel the pain.
I deserved it. Again.
24
New Orleans, 2004
Justin made two quick phone calls, then a longer one. I worked on the beer and fingered the pill bottle in my pocket. My nerves were craving a jump, but I held off and concentrated, fought the pain. I hadn’t been beat up so often since the band days. In a way, the aches were welcome.
Justin hung up and said, “She’s at Windsor Court.”
“Nice digs.”
“Staying under the name S. G. Halston.”
“Yeah, her mom’s maiden name and her Dad’s initial.” I stood from the bar, legs a little wobbly. “I’ll set up a meeting, see if I can get her alone.”
“You think?”
“Something tells me she’s got a personal assistant along, a bodyguard, maybe a lawyer.”
“Okay. My phone is yours.”
“I’ll do it from a pay phone. You, here’s what I want from you. How about going to see Beth? Explain the situation, get a read on her.”
He laughed, stinging. “Smooth. Send in reinforcements. I don’t think she’ll be happy to see me.”
“Then tell her I put one over on you, too, and you’re pissed. Tell her I’m facing jail or worse. I don’t care. But, you know…” I was out of words. Twisted my lips and imagined how I would react if I were Beth. No way, couldn’t do it.
Justin was thinking it over, staring at the floor with his arms crossed. Took a couple minutes before he finally said, “I’ll do it. Fine. Let’s get in touch after. You can take my cell phone.”
“I owe you one.”
“Stop saying that. I’m giving up Thanksgiving for this. Let me call in some help.”
He grabbed his jacket and started for the phone just as another set of footsteps echoed at the entrance. I turned my head to see an Asian guy, the name escaping me again, but finally I got it.
“Detective Hsieh.”
He grinned, hands in the pockets of his slacks. He was in a navy suit, shield on his belt, yellow-gold tie. He was looking to impress someone. Cameras, I guessed.
“Mr. Johnson. I’ve been looking for you.”
“I heard.”
He came towards me, laid-back, and Justin went ahead with his call. The detective nodded at him and then motioned towards the bar stools.
“Sit down, Merle.”
I couldn’t think of a response fast enough, ended up staring at him.
“Not answering to that name, then? Should I try Calvin?”
A glance over his shoulder. No back-up, no partner. Either he was alone or the cavalry was waiting outside. I sat down and Hsieh took the stool beside me. We leaned elbows on the bar. The detective actually seemed pretty happy. Busting me would be a career maker.
“Alone?” I said.
“Just came to talk, that’s all.”
“How’d you know where I was?”
“Anonymous tip about ten minutes ago. It so happened I was in the area. Good thing it’s my cell number in the paper this morning.”
A quick look at the newspaper, the one Will was reading. He had never come back.
Hsieh said, “You and me, a friendly chat. No one else knows right now.”
“You feel safe telling me that?”
“I’ve still got my gun, so don’t get cute.”
Justin finished his conversation and turned towards the TV, pretending to ignore us. He was sharp, though, definitely keeping on ear open.
“Chat. Okay. About?”
“So,” he said, his eyes bright. “You’re really him, aren’t you?”
I assumed he was taping this, gave him the slightest nod.
“I told you, I love your band. I still listen to the CDs, saw you in concert a couple times. Yeah, Todd dying, that was bad news, but here you are. Pulled an Elvis, and now we know the truth. I had this feeling, something in my gut.”
“Elvis is dead.”
“Is he? You kill him too?”
That got my head swiveled his way. No words, but a burning glare.
“I really liked Under the New Moon,” he said. “You guys getting all noir and shit, adding strings, but without selling out the rock. God, that guitar player. I used to do his solos note for note. Slower, though. What was it, ‘Avoid the Void’?”
“You accusing me of murder, detective?”
Hsieh’s face shrunk, sympathetic. I guessed he would rather keep doing the fan routine, put me at ease as he led us to a confession.
He sucked air through his teeth, then said, “We know what happened, come on. The nose all bruised up, broken blood vessels, and you’d be surprised at where DNA ends up. All the places you think won’t matter. But they do.”
“Todd was dead when I got there.”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“He’s the one who got terminally sloshed. I just caught the aftermath.”
Hsieh spread his elbows wide, locked his fingers together, and rested his chin on his knuckles. I kicked the steel pole at my feet, the one that ran the length of the bar. Justin took a step back.
The detective said, “Look, I’ve got one of the best defense attorneys in the city waiting for your call. He’s done high-profile before, and he can do federal, too. I can let you make a call, get him on board, and we’ll do this by the book. It’s your best shot.”
“I’ve got other plans.”
With that, I stepped behind him, pulled his jacket tail up over his head onto the bar, where Justin grabbed it and held him down. I took Hsieh’s pistol and thumped him on the head with it.
“Stop it! Hey!”
I hit him again. He kept thrashing. Knocking a guy out wasn’t as easy as it looked in movies. I palmed the back of his head and started knocking it against the bar—one, two, three, four—until he settled down, went limp. I held on until I was sure he wasn’t faking.
“Jesus, you kill him?” Justin said.
“Are you nuts? He’s a cop.”
“But beating him silly is fine?”
I stuck my hand under the jacket covering his head. If he was acting, then I’d probably get bit. I didn’t, though, and I felt a steady breath on my fingers.
“We need to do something with him and then get the hell out of here,” I said. “Back room? Trunk of your car?”
Justin shook his head. He uncurled his white knuckles and let the jacket slip down Hsieh’s back.
“We need to decide. Now.” I snapped my fingers in front of Justin’s face. “I don’t think we have too long.”
“Any place we can stash him for a few hours? A locked room he can’t get out of.”
I thought of all the little nooks and crannies of the Quarter I’d found, but then I had it.
“A casket. Airtight, but I can drill a hole in it or something. You got a drill?”
Justin’s mouth was open, moving, not quite believing me. Then, “I’ve got a drill. Where the hell can we get a casket?”
I’m sure my face wasn’t pretty, trying to be puppy-dog innocent. “I never did tell you about my house, did I?”
*
We pulled Justin’s car to the curb by the funeral home. I told him to wait a moment, jumped out, ran inside, and opened the garage door. Justin pulled inside and I lowered the door. He parked and stepped from the car, turning in little circles as he examined every corner of the garage.
“I didn’t think anyone lived here.”
“We don’t have time for a tour. Let’s get him out.”
We’d stuffed Hsieh in the trunk after Justin pulled his
car as close to the front door of the bar as we could manage. Then we made a getaway, Justin not worried about leaving the place wide open since the rest of the crew was on its way. If Hsieh hadn’t shown up, I was considering sticking around for some turkey and ham. My body was finally getting up the nerve to ask for food instead of pills.
We hauled the detective out. I had his gun and Justin held a cordless drill. Hsieh wasn’t completely out. Most likely a concussion, and he was damned groggy. We walked him between us into the business office, which I’d pretty much left alone except for sticking a few drum sets in the front room. The rest was as it had been when the funeral home moved operations—old filing cabinets taking up the whole wall, full of records dating eighty years back. Dust was a quarter inch thick on everything. Past those offices, down a dark hallway for which I’d never found the light switch, to a room full of the latest style caskets, circa 1989. The lights here clicked on, all track spotlights designed to showcase the top-line final resting places like they were new cars. Some were nearly that expensive.
Justin let loose a high lonesome whistle. “I’m afraid to ask any more questions.”
I thought I heard Hsieh say, “God no…” His eyes were half opened, coming out of the fog. “Please.”
The pill bottle was still in my pocket, so I shook out more than a few, sad to waste them, and forced them into Hsieh’s mouth. He struggled a little, but Justin held him firm while I covered his mouth until I felt him swallow.
“Sorry, no water. Soon enough you won’t mind, though.”
I took a lap of the room, looking for a wood casket that wouldn’t snap the drill bit. Needed to have a lock on it. Found one in the far corner on a fiberglass riser. Best bet seemed to be drilling from the inside out on the bottom half of the split lid.
A few minutes later I had drilled six quarter-sized holes, seemed enough to keep him alive. I looked back at Justin. He had straddled Hsieh on the floor, pinned his arms to his sides. The detective didn’t look like he was going to give us a fight, though.
I said, “Cuff him, Dan-O. Hands in front.”
“That’s ‘Book him, Dan-O.’”
“You with the fucking details. Who cares? Hands in front.”
The Drummer Page 14
