Fire Lake

by Jonathan Valin

  She smiled at me, and I smiled back at her.

  “Is it okay to go back?” I asked.

  “Sure,” she said. “Sy loves company.”

  I followed her across the room and down the hallway at the far end. The hall was lit from above by a string of bare bulbs and lined on either side with Steelcase shelves, empty save for a couple of reel-to-reel tape boxes and a few coils of coax cable. As we walked down the corridor the tinny sound of music got louder and fuller. I couldn’t make out the melody—the drums were masking it—but it was definitely three piece, fifties-style rock ‘n’ roll.

  There was a steel door at the end of the hall, with a conical bulb above it set in a wire cage. Karen glanced up at the bulb and said, “It’s okay. We can go in. He’s not recording now or that bulb would be lit.”

  She opened the door and I followed her into a small wainscoted room, with a glass window and another door on the far wall. There was a pair of speakers built into the wall to our left, blaring the music we’d been hearing. On the wall behind us, a huge bank of half-inch tape machines and line amplifiers, racked in metal cases, was lit up like a Christmas display. The VU meters were all pegged. And to our right, sitting on a castered chair behind a twenty-four-track mixing console, was a balding, paunchy, elfin man with a Reds cap on his head and earphones over the cap.

  For a second, Sy Levy didn’t realize that we’d come into the room. His eyes shut, he bobbed his head, drummed his fingers, and tapped his feet to the sound of the music coming through the headphones. He was wearing a white dress shirt open at the collar, a ribbed, high-necked undershirt, a red cardigan sweater, and baggy chino pants. A pair of steel-rimmed bifocal glasses were lying on the console in front of him. I could still see the indentations they’d made on either side of his nose. His face was tanned, plump, and kindly-looking. Tufts of gray hair jutted out of each side of the Reds cap, like the wings of a petasus. With the earphones on his head and the gone grin on his face, he looked like a weird cross between Timothy Leary and your uncle in Miami.

  “Simon!” Karen shouted at him.

  The old man blinked his eyes. When he saw Karen, his face lit up like his console. “Karen!” he shouted. “How the hell are you!” He had a high, cheerful voice that fit his elfin look. “Pull up a chair and sit down!”

  Levy’d forgotten he had the earphones on, and he was talking at the top of his lungs. Karen pointed at her ears, and Sy Levy made a questioning face, then smirked. He pulled the earphones off.

  “Goddamn things,” he said, tossing the headphones on the console. He looked up, with a start, at the speakers on the far wall. “Who turned them on?”

  “You did,” Karen said with a laugh.

  He shook his head, as if it were an old joke, and flicked a switch on the console. The room went quiet, except for the swish of the tape machines. Simon Levy leaned back in his chair, fitting the cap down over his smooth bald head with his right hand. “It’s been a long time, Karen,” he said, eyeing her affectionately. “You still look the same. Better.”

  “Bullshit,” she said, grinning at him. “I’m an old lady now, Simon, with two kids.”

  “Two!” he said with wonder. “Nobody’d guess.” He glanced over at me. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Stoner,” I said, holding out a hand. “Harry Stoner.”

  Levy leaned forward and shook with me across the console. “I’m Simon Levy,” he said warmly. “Last of the beatniks. That’s what I call myself, anyway. My ex-wives would tell you nudniks. But who’s asking them?” He looked back at Karen. “How come Lonnie’s not with you?”

  Karen shook her head. “We’re not together anymore, Sy.”

  “Since when?” Levy said with surprise.

  “A long time,” Karen said.

  “How come he didn’t tell me that?” he said in a pained voice.

  “You’ve spoken to Lonnie?” I asked Levy.

  He nodded. “He came to the store just last Wednesday.” Levy glanced from Karen to me then back at Karen. “Is there something I should know about?”

  “We’ve been looking for him, Sy,” Karen said. “Lonnie’s in some trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Levy said with alarm. He gave Karen a searching look. “What’s wrong here, Karen? What’s Lonnie gotten himself into?”

  “It’s a long story, Sy,” she said.

  “I got time.” He stood up and came out from behind the desk. “Time is all I got. We’ll go to the studio, get a cup of coffee. Talk it over.”

  Karen glanced fondly at the little glass window in the far wall. “Does it look the same?”

  Levy laughed hoarsely. “On my budget, how could it look different?”

  22

  LEVY PICKED up a placard that was sitting on the floor beside the console. “You go on ahead,” he said to Karen. “Help yourself to coffee. I’m going to put this sign in the window and lock up.”

  He flipped the placard over. Back in an hour was written on it in pen.

  “I don’t know why I bother anymore,” he said with a shrug. He tucked the sign under his arm and ambled off down the hall.

  Karen watched him disappear down the corridor, then glanced at me.

  “What do you think?” she said, arching a brow.

  “We’ll find out,” I said. “I have the feeling your friend likes to talk.”

  She smiled. “He’s a good talker, all right.” She pointed to the door in the far wall. “Let’s get some coffee.”

  Karen opened the door and we walked through it into a large open room, with peeling off-white walls and ratty green carpeting. An ancient upright piano was sitting beside the far wall, elevated off the floor on a riser. Two microphones were set up next to it—one by the keys, and the other peering straight down into the sounding board like a bird standing on one leg. Several other microphones were standing next to empty risers scattered around the floor; thick black microphone cables ran in coiled tangles everywhere. A tiny sealed-off sound booth with smoked-glass windows took up one corner of the room. I could see a drum set sitting inside the booth. Beat-up plastic couches and chairs lined each of the walls.

  Karen took it all in with that same look of nostalgic pleasure that she’d had on her face when we’d first stepped into Levy’s shop.

  “Believe it or not,” she said, “A lot of good music was made here.”

  “I believe it,” I said.

  She shook her head. “No, you don’t. You couldn’t know just by looking at it. You would have had to have been here in ‘69, when Lonnie was really cooking.”

  “I’ve heard him play,” I reminded her.

  “I know you have,” Karen said. “But it was different here, Harry. He was better here. With Sy and his friends and me. He was at home. We weren’t really into smack yet. And he’d sworn off speed. Or so he said. All he wanted to do was play his music. And man, he could play. He had a real hot band then—Flower Power.” She laughed at the name. “Flower Power. Can you believe that?”

  I smiled.

  “Flower Power,” she said again, staring around the room.

  A coffee machine was burbling on a little stand by the door. Karen walked over to it and poured two cups of coffee. She handed one to me.

  “The last time we stopped back here was in ‘70,” she said, sipping the coffee. “After our stint in Hollywood, on our way to New York. We had a kind of reunion—a jam session with Pete and Alex and Norvelle. Guys from the old band. God, that party lasted for days. People just kept coming to the studio, like it was an open house. Sy loved it. He was so happy for Lonnie, because he’d made it big. He never said a word about Lonnie dropping him as his manager. He was just happy for his friend.” She put the coffee cup down, walked over to one of the microphones and pushed it with her hand. It wobbled on its platter stand, like a dumbbell, then snapped upright.

  “If we’d known then what was in store, we’d have never stopped partying,” she said, her back to me. Her voice had grown heavy with nostalgia
. “Because it was all downhill, after that. That week was like the crest of a wave—the height of something. It was never that good again. That new. That full of promise. New York turned out to be a nightmare. Then Chicago. Philly. East St. Louis. After that, it was all...Fire Lake.”

  I walked over to her and pulled her close. She looked up at me with tears in her pale blue eyes. “I’m not crying for him, Harry,” she said apologetically. “Just for the way it was.”

  “It’s all right.” I stroked her brown hair and brushed the sidelocks from her wet eyes. “We’ll find him.”

  She shook her head. “Too late.”

  Levy walked into the room, and we both glanced at him. Karen wiped the tears from her eyes with her fingertips and smiled bravely.

  “I’m just feeling sad about the old days, Sy,” she said with a broken smile.

  “’S all right,” he said, waving a hand at her. “I feel sad about them all the time. Feeling sad about the past is my business.”

  Karen smiled. “The studio really hasn’t changed, has it?”

  Levy looked around the decrepit room, with just a touch of pride on his face. “Nope. It’s still a mess. But this room has history in it. The wallpaper may be peeling, but there’s music in that plaster. Lots and lots of music. And Lonnie made his share.”

  I had the feeling he was saying it for my benefit. I smiled at him and said, “I wish I’d been here then.”

  “Where were you, kid?” Levy said in his sprightly voice. “We’d have taken you in, wouldn’t we, princess?” He smiled at Karen, and she nodded. “We were a family.”

  Levy walked over to one of the plastic couches and sat down.

  “About Lonnie,” Levy said, folding one thin leg over the other and cupping his hands on his paunch. “What kind of trouble is he in?”

  Karen glanced at me and I said, “Tell him.”

  She ducked her head. “Drugs.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Levy said with a sigh, as if that’s what he’d been expecting to hear. “Is he in jail?”

  Karen shook her head. “But he might be better off in jail. He’s botched up a drug deal and gotten in trouble with the man.”

  Levy winced with pain. “How could he do that?” he said, staring at Karen helplessly. “A kid like him. With all that talent. How can he keep destroying himself this way?” He shook his head mournfully and tsk-tsked with his lips. “Stupid, stupid.”

  “What did he talk to you about on Wednesday?” I asked Levy.

  “He asked me for a few bucks.”

  “Did you give him money?”

  Levy blushed for an answer.

  “How much money?”

  “How much I had on me,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets, as if he were hanging on to what was left. “Not much. Thirty, forty bucks.” He jiggled the change in his pants pockets, making his trousers flutter loosely about his legs.

  “Did he tell you why he needed the money?” I asked.

  Levy shook his head again. “We didn’t talk money. Money don’t mean nothing. We talked old times. We talked music. Mostly we talked about you, sweetheart,” he said to Karen.

  Karen put a hand to her mouth. “What about me?” she said timidly.

  “About bringing you back to Cincy,” Levy said. “He didn’t tell me you two were separated. He just said he had high hopes about relocating and starting fresh. He had a plan. He was going to get back together with Norvelle Thomas. Remember Norvelle?”

  Karen nodded, her hand still over her mouth as if she were afraid to make a sound.

  “He was going to start a new band with Norvelle. Rehearse out here, in the studio. He was going to get back on track. Then he said he was going to bring you here to live with him. We were going to have another reunion, once you got here. Like the one back in ‘70. One big family again. Remember?”

  Karen stared at Levy with a heartbroken look on her face. I put my arm around her and pulled her against me.

  “I can’t,” she said, shaking her head. “I just can’t, Harry.”

  She broke away from me and walked quickly out of the room.

  Levy stared after her piteously. He took his glasses off and wiped his eyes. “Life isn’t fair,” he said—to no one, to the walls with the music in them. “You should have seen her in 1969. She was the most beautiful child. So loyal to him, so full of spirit, so full of hope. And Lonnie...” His tired eyes went out of focus, as if he were reliving it in his mind. “He was the best I ever had. And I helped a lot of kids. But Lonnie was special, and you don’t ever stop being special.”

  I stared around the forlorn studio and ducked my head.

  “He still loves her, you know,” Levy said sadly.

  I kept staring guiltily at the floor. “This Norvelle you mentioned. Do you know where he can be reached?”

  Levy nodded. “Leanne Silverstein gave him a handyman job at that theater she manages. For old times’ sake. Except for pickup work, Norvelle hasn’t really played steadily for years.”

  “Leanne Silverstein?” I said.

  “That’s her married name,” Levy said. “Ask Karen. Tell her Leanne Gearheart. She’ll know.”

  “Where is the theater?” I asked.

  “Downtown. On Fourth Street. The Bijou.”

  I thought of the ticket I’d found in Lonnie’s clothing. It was a connection. Not a big one, but it gave me the feeling that Karen and I were on the right track.

  “Thanks,” I said to the old man. “You’ve been a help.”

  I started for the door.

  “Mister?” Levy said.

  I glanced back at him over my shoulder.

  “Look out for her, won’t you?” he said with feeling. “She didn’t deserve the break she got. She never did.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I promised.

  “And mister...” He put his glasses back on and stared at me. “Look after him, too, if you can.”

  I told him I’d try.

  23

  I HAD a brief moment of panic when I stepped out of Levy’s Music World and couldn’t find Karen on the street. Then I looked over at the Pinto and saw her sitting behind the steering wheel, fixing her makeup in the rearview mirror, I walked slowly over to the car. My back was beginning to hurt again, but I didn’t know what to do about it—except take another pill.

  “Are you all right?” I said, easing into the seat beside her.

  She glanced over at me as she blotted her eyes with a wadded-up tissue. “I’m sorry for that scene in there,” she said, blushing.

  “It’s okay,” I said gently.

  Karen stared at herself in the mirror. “No, it’s not okay. I don’t like to get like that. It’s not good for me. It puts bad ideas in my head.”

  I eyed her for a moment.

  “You still love Lonnie, don’t you?” I said, perhaps because Levy had just said that Lonnie still loved her.

  “I don’t know,” she said with a doomed look on her beautiful face. “I guess a piece of me does. In spite of all the shit, I guess part of me will always love Lonnie.”

  I must have winced a little, because Karen reached out quickly and touched my cheek. “I’m falling in love with you, too, Harry. Don’t misunderstand. But you’re still new to me. Being in a relationship is new to me. We hardly know each other yet.” She dropped her hand and stared vacant-eyed at the car seat. “Seeing that studio...it made me realize how many years had gone by. Wasted years. Dreadful years. But it also made me realize that there had been a good time too.” She looked up at me again, uncertainly. “I can say that, can’t I?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  She shook her head. “Maybe I can’t say that. Maybe it’s crazy to say that. Maybe I ought to go back to St. Louis now and forget this whole goddamn thing.”

  “I think you should, although I’d miss you.”

  “I’d miss you too. That’s the bitch of it.” She turned back to the steering wheel. “No,” she said decisively, “I won’t run out on you, Harry. I just do
n’t know how many more of these trips down Memory Lane I can stand. I don’t want to lose my balance again and start falling.”

  A few drops of rain dashed against the windshield. Karen started up the engine and switched on the wipers.

  “I don’t know where Norvelle lives, but I guess we should find out,” she said, straightening up the rearview mirror.

  “That’s the good news,” I said. “Levy told me that Norvelle was working in a theater downtown—the Bijou. When I found Lonnie at the motel, he had a ticket in his pocket from that theater; so he must have gone there, after visiting Sy.”

  “He and Norvelle were always tight,” Karen said.

  “Who is Norvelle?” I asked.

  “A tall, gangly black kid who played bass in Lonnie’s band. Flower Power—the group I told you about.”

  “He’s working for someone named Leanne Gearheart now.”

  Karen winced, as if I’d pricked her with a pin. “Another name from the past,” she said, although I could tell from the pained look on her face that it wasn’t a name she was fond of.

  “You don’t like her?”

  “It’s not that I don’t like her,” Karen said, pretending indifference. “She went with Lonnie before I did, and we just never got along. You know, there was a lot of jealousy there. And then she took it hard when Lonnie broke up with her. I always felt kind of guilty about that.”

  “Do you think Lonnie might have looked her up?” I asked.

  Karen shrugged. “Sure. It’s possible, although she might not have been all that happy to see him. Norvelle is a better bet.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s a junkie,” Karen said. “Or at least he used to be. And after getting out of jail, Lonnie may have been looking to get high.”

  “Norvelle is connected?” I said with interest.

  Karen nodded. “Norvelle is the dude who taught Lonnie how to shoot up. He’s a ghetto kid, and smack’s a ghetto vice. At least, it used to be back when we got into it. I used to kid Lonnie about being half black himself; but it wasn’t really a joke. For a few years there, we lived in the ghetto. All our friends were black. It just came with the habit.”