“I was just thinking about you,” I said to the suffering image on the cross. “Sorry about that.”
Maybe in the next town, I’d find a holy roller church, repent of my sins, and play drums for the congregation. Why not? I could get rid of the weight, all my shame. Still, I’d be living a lie under a new name and a new story. I’d be as guilty as before. A preacher with slick hair and a nice suit showed up at my house in L.A. and told me that God forgives us of sin, not in sin. Seemed to me that made Jesus’ sacrifice a waste of time.
“What do you mean?” the preacher asked. He was sitting in my living room, the plush one designed by the ex-stripper who wasn’t living there anymore. Surrounded by fancy furniture, and he acted as if it were all tainted. Like his own suit wasn’t a month’s pay for a member of his generous congregation. Was it necessary to look that good when spreading the Gospel?
I said, “I’ve got to tell you, man, that if this was a continuation of the sacrificial system, then it shouldn’t matter how we live. We should accept that we’ve been forgiven by this awesome dude’s gift to us. I mean, you don’t pay for a gift, do you? Like, hold on…”
I got up and ran out of the room, found a guitar Stefan had given me because he had way too many already from his endorsement deal with ESP. A nice red Strat copy, not too crazy for the Man of God. I brought this into the living room and handed it to the preacher.
“A gift, from me to you. Donate it to the church, trade it for another suit, whatever floats your barge, man. Do you play?”
“Well, a little, sure, but I can’t—”
“Sure you can, and you will. I’m not letting you refuse it. It’s not an option. In that case, if you didn’t want the thing, it would be a burden to you, right?”
“Son, I think you need to check the Bible before trying to understand salvation.”
“Why? Is there some fine print I haven’t seen?” I noticed he hadn’t laid the guitar down. “A loophole?”
“If you don’t want it, then that’s your choice. It’s free will. We have to make the choice with our own minds.”
“It’s more than that. You’d want me to get a haircut, stop singing about pussy, and give some of this cash I’ve earned to the church. Yeah, now, don’t start with what the Bible says either. I’m just saying, you know, and it’s true.”
He took the guitar home. I laughed at that, went back inside, and chased some reds with tequila. In a world without Jesus, that wouldn’t have been so easy to do. You’d be on your toes all the time, like lawyers, always “testing” the law, see how far it bent.
Anyway, I shook the memory out of my head, stood and crossed the room to the crucifix, and kissed Jesus on the head.
“Things could be worse,” I said. “There’s still time. If you’re coming back, how about doing it before Doug dies?”
Then I went to retrieve the cop I’d shoved into the casket.
*
The muted screams hit me in the hallway outside the casket showroom. I smiled. At least he wasn’t dead. Freaked, maybe. I could work with freaked.
With one hand I held Hsieh’s Glock, and with the other I unlocked the box and lifted the lid. He was shaking, but he stopped screaming.
First words out of his mouth before he really focused on me were, “It’s him, the drummer! He did this! He’s with a bartender, name of Justin—”
Then he realized who had saved him. The velvet padding inside the lid was scratched to ribbons, spotted with blood. Looked like he broke a few fingernails doing that. He held his hands to his chest like an arranged corpse. They were streaked with dried blood.
I said, “I’ve always heard the urban legends, those people buried alive who, when the coffins were opened because they were exhumed or washed up in a flood, had scratched the top of their caskets. Guess it’s a natural response.”
Hsieh looked tired, his face puffy from crying, his mouth twitchy. “What are you going to do to me? Let me go, and I won’t tell anyone, please.”
“That never works.”
“I made a mistake, okay? You were right, me thinking about my career, about us, you know, working something out so it wouldn’t be so rough on you.”
I leaned close, kept the gun out of sight. “What happens in the Caribbean to zombies, because they’re not really dead, just this tricky coma powder, is that they think they’ve been raised up and their souls sold to a witch doctor or some shit like that.”
“Serpent and the Rainbow.”
“Right, exactly. Voodoo, brought to this very city from those very islands. Big time religious stew. This time, ain’t no powder, ain’t no witch doctor. Your ass is still mine, though. At least tonight. If not, I can call your bosses, let them come pick you up while I disappear again. I’m sure that would look good on your record.”
Hsieh looked over my shoulder, around the room, then asked, “Where’s your friend?”
“None of your business.”
“He’s a conspirator.”
“Still think you’re a cop? Not under my voodoo. Tonight, you’re my shadow. You will see all but remain unseen. You will protect me should the need arise.”
“Bullshit. You can’t make me do anything. The moment we get outside, you’re done. I take a walk. I kick your ass.”
“Not going to happen.” I held up his gun, far away so he couldn’t make a wild grab for it. “This is my insurance policy. Try anything, I shoot you. But I’d rather help you.”
He sat up, still clenching his fingers to his chest. “Keep going.”
“You want a part of this arrest. It looks like I’m stuck because someone already has the goods on me. Turning myself into the cops might be the better option, but for now I need to know who it is that tracked me down. So come along, keep your mouth shut, and if it goes bad, I’ll give you the gun and you can take over. Flash your badge, tell them there’s back-up on the way.” I blew on the gun barrel like a movie cowboy.
I wasn’t exactly sure how much I’d be able to trust him. As long as I had the firepower, I guess. Hsieh made it out of the casket on his own, almost toppling it off the riser at one point. Breathing hard, pretty weak from the dope. He noticed the holes in the top of the casket, knocked the lid with his knuckles.
“You softie. I wondered why I hadn’t run out of air.”
I shrugged like Bugs Bunny. “Like I said, your ass is mine. You owe your resurrection to me.”
*
After we bandaged his hand, Hsieh took a look at the parlor where I’d set up my home studio. He stood behind the Slingerlands, running his hand around the ride cymbal. He was impressed.
“They won’t be here tomorrow,” I said.
“If I can help it, they’ll be in my rec room by midnight.”
I pushed him ahead of me and we stepped down the stairs, past the grandfather clock, through the front office and into the garage. My only remaining vehicle—a Dodge Ram, 1999, Metallic Granite.
Hsieh said, “Why not turn yourself in right now to me and save yourself the trouble?”
I shook my head. “I can’t trust city cops. No offense. They’d get all territorial, embarrassed how I’d slipped under their nose, and that would cause double trouble for me. The Feds could give a shit about Todd and my fake identity. They only want the money and the glory. Instead of killing me, they’ll cut the deal and talk about how they outsmarted such a smart man like myself.”
“You really think they’ll say that? I’m making you a promise. Let’s go to the police station, and we’ll treat you like the King of Pop, I swear.”
I bopped Hsieh on the head with his pistol. He cried out, covered his scalp with his palm and rubbed.
“Look, I don’t have any idea what’s going to happen,” I said. “I’m out of plans, plots, ideas, escapes. I’m tired, man. So fucking tired. I’ve been tired for years, and New Orleans was great because you can be tired here and it’s okay.” I cranked the truck. The radio blasted out WWL at ear-numbing volume. I turned it down. Rush Limbaugh was
on. He wasn’t talking about me.
“This is one weird way to give up,” Hsieh said.
He triggered a memory for some reason. “You know, one time, we had this mother and daughter set come up to the room. They were hot, I’m telling you, but this mother, man, she’s like forty-eight or something, and I was grooving on her more than the daughter, who wanted the singer anyway. So, I’m fucking her, right?”
“I think I’ve heard this. About the fish?”
Almost hit him again. “No, that’s Led Zeppelin. Look, I’m fucking her, and she’s giving me a good show, but then she asks me to stop. I do, you know. It was so strange. She gets up and puts her clothes on, makes like she’s leaving. The daughter is in the shower with Todd, no clue what’s happening. I take this lady downstairs to the bar, buy her some coffee, and ask what was wrong.”
“That was thoughtful.”
“Turns out she’s married. Her husband was a reporter and wanted an interview with us, sent his own wife and teenage daughter to see if they could get us to agree. He wanted an exclusive he could sell to a glossy zine. The wife was okay with it at first, but when push came to shove, the whole wrongness of it came into focus. She couldn’t handle it.”
“Wow. That’s fucked up.”
“No, here’s what’s fucked up. I agreed to the interview. When it was done, I told him how much I liked his wife’s pussy, then punched him in the mouth.”
Hsieh didn’t look at me, didn’t say a word. I pulled the truck out of the garage and onto the street.
I said, “Most people have no idea what it means to be a rock star.”
“Neither did I,” Hsieh said, low and sad.
*
The Warehouse District of New Orleans was exactly that—a bunch of warehouses. But over the past couple decades, those warehouses had transformed into high-class apartments, good roots music venues, and restaurants like Emeril’s. There were still plenty of dilapidated storage spaces around, and there always would be. Something about the place was anti-tourist, so it drew the crowd who thought they could one-up the tacky, saturated Quarter by claiming their own little spot of land to grow the ritziness they believed the city deserved.
Problem was these cookie cutter yuppies couldn’t help but get the zydeco in their blood and surrender to the humidity and the ocean of creole sauces on every dish. Fuck class. Even the high and snooty in New Orleans were campy as hell.
I knew the district pretty well, and I pulled alongside the curb at a rare guitar shop I used to visit quite often when I first hit town, down on Magazine near the interstate.
Hsieh held in a laugh when he saw the sign over the shop’s door. “Cute.”
“You expected a bakery? No one said I had to stop loving music.”
“Yeah, but the irony.”
“Fuck irony. I do what works. Here, the truck’s a little safer, and it isn’t so far to walk.”
Out of the truck, down a couple of blocks, the folks on the street looking at us funny, smelling the cop on Hsieh. They thought we were either lost or stupid.
“Definitely stupid,” I said, hiding it under a sigh.
“Do I get a gun for this? Am I supposed to cover you with my bare hands?”
“I didn’t know you felt that way.”
“Jesus, would you listen—”
“All right, fine. Look, you don’t get a gun. I told you I want you in the shadows, and if something looks fishy, you flash your shield.”
“Ever been in a casket? It suits you.”
I patted my waistband, his gun. “Bang bang.”
Several more blocks, both of us breathing hard and sweating. I wiped my palms on my shirt, examined the buildings around us. The streets were nearly empty, the sidewalks littered with papers, broken bottles, and fast food bags.
“We’re here.”
“Where’s here?”
I pointed to the faded-yellow building I’d watched the mugger enter earlier, the architecture plain and industrial, circa 1960. The windows were scattershot broken and boarded. The front door and garage bay, though, were almost new, certainly in use.
I leaned against the corner wall out of sight of the yellow building. Hsieh was talking nonsense to hide his own nerves, try to distract from him looking for the perfect time to rush me and take the gun. Maybe he wasn’t so career-minded after all.
We were still and quiet for what felt like a long time—Hsieh pacing a three-foot span, me against the building, scraping my boot on the sidewalk and trying to remember what a shower felt like, my brain screaming for the pills in my pocket. Without an idea of what I was about to face inside that building, and no plan to counter it, this felt like suicide. One of those “soldiers sent on a one-way mission” things. Like sitting on a falling airplane, or being trapped underwater and having no choice but to open your mouth, or watching the train while your foot is stuck in the track. I never thought about death much, even when I was dead. I figured I’d be eighty, go in my sleep, not even realize it.
The idea of jail felt the same as the idea of death, except it was the Hell I wasn’t too keen to believe in. A monotonous, pride-stripped, painful, humiliating drain that dared you to end it all.
I asked Hsieh, “Ever been to prison?”
He stopped pacing. “You mean just visiting, or actually behind bars?”
“Either.”
“I’ve been to Angola once, transporting a prisoner. I didn’t get much except this vibe of hate. Lock-up gives you time to really hold a grudge. Forgiveness? Fuck.”
“You’ve seen how they live, then.”
“Yeah, I have. It’s a different world. I go to city jail all the time, all the temporaries, people waiting for trial, deportation, in-and-out from tricking and pushing weed, simple. There, the whole thing is about volume—shout how innocent you are, how those cops are going to hear from your lawyer. And the questions, a bunch of questions they throw at anyone in a suit or uniform. None of that at the pen. You’ve learned by the time you get there.” He grinned at me. “Little worried? Thinking about how you’ll feel with a gangsta dick in your mouth?”
“You wish.”
“I sure as hell do. Trust me, you get sent up, I know the ears to whisper in to make sure it happens five minutes after they throw you in general population. I’m talking a gangbang on your skinny ass.”
I pushed off the wall, straightened to full height and took a big step towards him. My knees ached. Chest to chest, me with a foot and a half over him. “What happened to you being such a big fan of Savage Night, treating me with kids’ gloves?”
Hsieh didn’t back down. “That was before you locked me in a coffin.”
I yanked his gun from my waistband and said, “Stick by me, you might get a chance to repay the favor. I’m going in, and you’re going with me. Don’t say a goddamn word, understand? They ask who you are, I’ll answer for you. If it looks like they might push you aside or try to get me alone, that’s when you speak up.”
He eyeballed me, no blinking, all fury. “I save you from what? A bullet in the head?”
“No clue. But it’s better than anything else I’ve thought of in the past two days.” I peeked around the corner. Same scene, same emptiness, a weird feeling in my gut. “Maybe I should’ve just paid my taxes.”
*
We crossed the street, hugged the wall in case anyone was watching from between slats on the boarded windows. A car turned the corner and scared the hell out of me. I hid the gun by my leg, scraped the barrel and my knuckles on the bricks. Not a good week for my hands. The car passed, paid us no mind.
The garage bay door was up, and I slowly poked my head around and couldn’t see anything. Too dark in the depths. If anyone was back there, I was in plain sight. My eyes didn’t adjust so well. So I did what anybody else would do.
I said, “Hello?”
It bounced back at me three times. Nothing else did. No footsteps, gunshots, answering voices, nothing.
Why not take a step inside? Then another
, and another, and five more after that. Hsieh was a few behind me. From the sound of it, he was slowing, widening the space between us. I wondered if he was in on the trap, too. After all, he showed up alone at Justin’s, which no cop would do except in Michael Connelly novels. He agreed to this silly plan of mine when he should’ve jumped out of the truck at any sidewalk and yelled for help. Instead, here he was, leading me along by following.
As my eyes adjusted, I got the basic layout of the garage and, lo and behold, damn thing was empty. I turned, faced Hsieh, fifteen feet away. A long putt. A short gunshot.
“What’s the deal? What do you expect me to do now?” I said.
“I don’t understand.”
“This,” I said, hands wide, presenting the emptiness to him. “What about it? I expected a trap, not emptiness. You, you’re in on everything. I’m not walking out of this building alive, am I?”
He took another step back, eyes drawn to the gun in my hand. I lifted it, closed the gap between us, letting paranoia make my choices. I hoped he would run. Something made me think that if he were clean, he would freak and run. Otherwise, he would stay because he knew back-up was in the shadows waiting for the right moment to take me down.
He stayed put. Son of a bitch.
“I’m surprised they haven’t shot me already. Holding a gun on a cop. That’s instant deathifying if I ever saw it.”
He held his palms up and seemed to shrink. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m on your side.”
“Like shit you are.”
“Really, serious, listen.” He straightened. I got a vibe that he was trying hard. If he were safe in this bear trap, I’d think he would put on the macho a little more.
I lowered the gun. “Go on.”
“You don’t deserve any of the shit that’s coming down on you. I admit, I was stupid to waltz in on my own and try to reason with a guy who’s trying to cut himself free, but I’m being honest here. I do love your band. I’d rather the story end a little more happily than it looks like it will. So I’m here to help change that if I can.”
The Drummer Page 18
