Zip Gun Boogie

by Mark Timlin

  ‘What’s she doing now?’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Is there anyone else?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I cleared the decks. I’m all alone now.’

  ‘Are you happy about that?’

  I shrugged again. ‘You get used to it.’

  ‘I don’t. I hate it.’

  I thought about all the newspaper stories I’d read about her and men. ‘I’m sure you don’t have to be.’

  As if she knew what I was thinking, she said, ‘I’m terribly lonely, Nick. I’m always reading about how I’m screwing some guy or other. Most of them I’ve never met, or just said hello to at some party or other. Jesus, if I’d had as many fucks as the papers say, my pussy would be worn down to the bone.’ She laughed and stubbed out her cigarette.

  I had to laugh too. I wouldn’t have minded the job as it goes, but I knew I couldn’t accept. I liked her too much for one thing, even though I was beginning to realise what a manipulative bitch she was. And for another I could still feel the kiss she’d given me in the back of the car.

  ‘So whaddya say, Nick?’

  ‘I’ve got a job,’ I said. ‘Here, with you lot. I’ve already been paid. And I’m not doing it very well. Why would you want me to work for you?’

  ‘I like you.’

  ‘I like you too,’ I said. ‘Why don’t we just keep it like that? I’m a bad employee on a permanent basis. I don’t relate well to authority. It’s better if I just freelance. Less stress on everyone.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be like that.’

  ‘That’s what all prospective bosses say.’

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘Listen, Ninotchka,’ I said, ‘I think you’re great. But that doesn’t mean I want to belong to you. I’ll be close until we find out what’s happening here. I feel bad about taking money from the band and doing nothing in return.’

  ‘What we paid you is chump change,’ she said spitefully. Rich people always do that.

  ‘See what I mean?’ I said. ‘As soon as we start talking money, everything changes.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Nick,’ she said. ‘I’m just being an asshole. I’m used to people doing what I want.’

  ‘I’m sure you are. But don’t let’s fall out.’

  ‘Dinner tonight?’

  ‘You’re persistent.’

  ‘I’m trying.’

  ‘There’s a million guys…’

  ‘Sure,’ she interrupted. ‘But you’re the one I want to have dinner with.’

  ‘Let me see Lomax first. I’d better make my peace.’

  ‘Call me in my suite?’

  ‘Course I will.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘Walk me down.’

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure.’

  We got up and somehow she was in my arms and we were kissing. Jesus, it was like having a butterfly in my mouth. Then she pulled away. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have done that. I’ll see myself to my room.’ And she ran out and slammed the door behind her.

  10

  I found Lomax in the bar. Once again he was alone in the dark with an exotic cocktail in front of him. ‘Still with us, Sharman?’ he asked.

  ‘I want to talk to you about that.’

  ‘Talk away.’

  ‘I’ve done a rotten job,’ I admitted. ‘No job in fact.’ I stood there in silence for a minute, feeling like a fool. ‘There’s two reasons for that,’ I said. ‘One is that I don’t like what I do anymore. Snooping around. Ferreting. And then opening a can of worms that won’t be closed until someone else gets hurt.’

  ‘Or you.’

  ‘Or me,’ I agreed. Then I was silent again.

  ‘And the second reason?’

  ‘You get right up my nose, as it happens.’

  I couldn’t see the expression on his face in the dimness of the bar, and I could not have cared less what it was. He reached over and turned up the light and looked at me. Then he laughed.

  ‘You’re honest, I’ll say that for you.’

  ‘I try to be.’

  ‘So you want to quit?’

  ‘No. There’s a couple of people I’ve met here I like, and I took on the job, and I took your cash and clothes. Now I’ll do what I came to do if you still want me around. Otherwise a full refund can be arranged.’

  ‘No need,’ he said. ‘Stick around.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m sorry I’ve wasted a day.’

  ‘Forget it. All’s quiet.’

  ‘At the moment.’

  ‘Security’s tight.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘Premiere’s a good company.’

  ‘Yeah. The size of some of those guys! I don’t know what they do to anyone with any funny ideas, but they sure scare the hell out of me.’

  He laughed again. ‘Between you and me, me too. And I pay their wages.’

  ‘I was out of line leaving Don behind last night.’

  ‘No problem. Like I said, all’s quiet. So what are you going to do first?’

  ‘The same as I said before. Talk to people.’

  ‘Stick around then. The afternoon shift should be in soon. I’m surprised they’re not in here by now.’

  As if to confirm this, the door to the bar opened and three big geezers came in. They were strangers to me.

  ‘More roadies,’ said Lomax.

  ‘I recognise the type.’

  ‘Start with them,’ he said. ‘But watch them. They can be a bit…’ he hesitated, ‘… abrasive around strangers. Yes, abrasive is the word. They were the ones that were in Trash’s suite that night.’

  ‘Is that so? Interesting. Yes, I’d like to talk to them.’

  ‘Fine, but just remember they can be very difficult if you rub them up the wrong way.’

  ‘I’ll take the risk,’ I said.

  Lomax stood up and gestured the roadies over and they collected a beer each from the bar and came and joined us. They looked at me like I was an insect in the toilet bowl. ‘Nick Sharman,’ Lomax introduced me.

  One of the roadies, a bear of a man wearing a baseball cap with the peak over one ear, said: ‘We heard. Chippy told us.’ He was American.

  ‘Seltza,’ said Lomax. ‘Guitar roadie.’

  I nodded at him.

  ‘Turdo, drums,’ said Lomax, and indicated the man on Seltza’s right. He was very big too, with long, greasy hair tied back behind his ears. He didn’t even bother to nod.

  ‘Chick,’ said Lomax and nodded at the last of the trio. This one was very tall with an acne-scarred face, denim shirt and jeans and thick red braces. His eyes flicked over at me and he drank some beer. Friendly guys, I thought.

  ‘Chick’s the best rigger in the business,’ said Lomax by way of explanation. I wondered what a rigger was, but didn’t ask. ‘Nick wants to ask you some questions,’ Lomax continued. ‘Tell him what he wants to know. He’s on our side.’

  I got the impression that the three other men at our table thought differently.

  ‘Well, guys, I’ve got to love you and leave you,’ said Lomax. ‘Things to do, people to see.’ He stood and Turdo moved to let him out. ‘Have fun,’ he said to me.

  I guessed this was his way of getting his revenge. After he’d gone there was silence. I looked at the members of the road crew. I said to Seltza, ‘You were up in Shapiro’s suite on the night he got poisoned?’

  He shrugged. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Did you notice anything?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Anything strange.’

  ‘I was wasted, man. I didn’t notice anything.’

  ‘Except Lindy’s tits,’ said the one they called Turdo. He was American too, with an accent that sounded like it had crawled out of the Everg
lades on the back of an alligator. Eventually I was going to have to ask him about that name.

  Seltza flashed him an angry look.

  ‘Been on the road long?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, man,’ said Turdo. ‘Fucking forever.’

  ‘Good band to work for?’

  ‘They’ll do ’til something better comes along.’

  ‘Did you see anything the other night?’

  ‘I wasn’t around for long,’ said Turdo. ‘I had to visit a friend.’

  ‘An errand of mercy,’ said Seltza.

  ‘She was sick,’ said Turdo.

  ‘And you rushed to her bedside,’ said Seltza. ‘And ended up in it.’

  ‘She’d have to be sick to go to bed with that,’ said Chick, speaking for the first time. He had a Scottish accent. All three laughed and slapped palms. Very macho. I was starting to lose interest, and I was the only one without a drink.

  I looked at Chick. ‘You were there too, weren’t you?’

  ‘Surely was.’

  ‘See anything?’

  ‘The same as him.’ He indicated Seltza.

  ‘So none of you saw anything?’ I persevered.

  ‘Looks like it.’ Seltza again.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You’ve been a big help.’

  ‘Sarcastic guy,’ said Chick.

  I tried a different tack. ‘Did any of you know a bloke called Alan Gee? Algie. He was a road manager.’

  Turdo snickered. ‘Road manager.’ He mimicked my London accent. That went down well, I can tell you.

  ‘Mark McBain’s personal?’ said Chick.

  I nodded.

  ‘Who the fuck are we talking about?’ asked Turdo.

  ‘You remember him,’ said Chick again. ‘Big mother-fucker. Used to work for Queen. He came to that fucking open-air gig we did in Houston. Where it rained.’

  ‘First day it rained in a fucking year,’ said Turdo reminiscently. ‘And it had to be on us. I remember. What happened to him?’

  ‘He was killed by some nutty fucking Yank. Fucking Americans! Algie was a good guy. Outstanding,’ said Chick.

  ‘I was with him,’ I said.

  ‘When?’ asked Chick.

  ‘When he died. He saved my life.’

  ‘That was you? Man, I read about that shit. It was all to do with McBain, yeah? I met him once. Crazy fucker, man. Always high. Christ, man, that was a shame.’

  ‘It was,’ I said. ‘Algie was a friend.’

  ‘So?’ asked Turdo.

  Chick put up his hand to quieten him. ‘Algie was cool. Didn’t take no bullshit. Why’d he do it? Why’d he die for you?’

  I shrugged. ‘No idea,’ I said. ‘I never got to know him as well as I would have liked. But you’re right, he didn’t take any bullshit. It wasn’t the only time he helped me. Someone close died and he was there for me.’

  ‘A fucking lot of people round you die,’ said Seltza.

  I didn’t answer that.

  ‘So what are you getting at?’ asked Chick.

  ‘Nothing really,’ I said. ‘I know you don’t want me round here. Nor did Algie when I went and worked for McBain. But I am here. I’m a fact of life. Like piles. He got used to me. We ended up friends. He had a good attitude. I wondered if you lot knew him and were the same, or if you were just going to wank around and hope I took umbrage and left. Because I won’t, I promise you that. Also I wanted you to know that I’m not here to interfere in your lives – unless you gave Shapiro the heroin that nearly killed him. Maybe we can sort this all out with minimum trauma. But if something else bad happens the police will be called in and they tend to frown on certain recreational habits.’

  ‘Like?’ asked Seltza.

  ‘Drugs.’

  ‘The man’s suggesting we take drugs,’ said Chick. But his tone was noticeably lighter than previously.

  ‘I think we should see a lawyer, man,’ said Turdo. ‘That’s defamation of character.’

  ‘You ain’t got no character to defame, man,’ said Seltza and finished his beer. ‘Anyone for another?’ he asked.

  Both the other roadies lifted their glasses in assent. ‘Wanna beer?’ he said to me.

  ‘Sure,’ I said, and the ice was broken.

  11

  I spent the rest of the evening with the roadies. We ate dinner in the hotel restaurant. Keith Pandora was in with his two playmates, and another woman who resembled an older, ravaged version of them whom I took to be their mother. She was a flower child gone to seed, with straight hair too black to be natural and too long for her age. She wore a vaguely bohemian outfit of dark patterned long-sleeved shirt, worn loose over a mini skirt and black tights, with high-heeled boots, lots of silver, and a crystal on a chain around her neck. I disliked her on sight.

  On their way out, Pandora stopped over at our table and spoke to me. ‘I’ve been expecting a visit,’ he said.

  ‘You’re next on my list.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Sure. Come up at eleven and have breakfast.’

  ‘OK. I look forward to it,’ I replied. I could see the woman clocking me through the short conversation. The two teeny boppers looked bored throughout, and drifted away towards the exit.

  ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us, Keith?’ asked the woman.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Nick, this is Andrea Batiste. Andrea, Nick Sharman.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ I said. Although it wasn’t particularly.

  ‘And you,’ she said, and smiled. She looked younger when she did.

  ‘Tomorrow then,’ said Pandora, and they moved away. As they went Andrea Batiste looked over her shoulder at me.

  When they were safely through the door, Seltza said, ‘Shit! I couldn’t tell you what I could do to those two little honey bunnies.’

  ‘Man,’ said Turdo, ‘I’d love to have the pair of them in the shower, soaping me up and jerking me off.’

  ‘Soapy tit wank,’ said Chick, with a faraway look in his eyes.

  ‘You fuckers are disgusting,’ I said.

  ‘Hey, Mr Straight, loosen up,’ said Seltza. ‘They love it as much as that hairy fucker Pandora. Come on, man. Don’t tell me it hasn’t crossed your mind. That you haven’t thought about it a bit. Everyone else round here has.’

  To be honest I had, and that’s what I didn’t like. I’ll admit that the thought of those two lithe young bodies all over me like a rash turned me on. Then I thought about Judith and I felt ashamed. ‘Sure,’ I said, ‘I’ve thought about it. And then after I’ve thought about it, I’ve thought how it would be if it was my little girl in a couple of years. Know what I mean?’

  The table fell silent. ‘Sure,’ said Seltza after a moment, raising his hands in surrender. ‘Nothing personal, partner.’ He pronounced it, ‘podner’. ‘Didn’t mean to give you a hard time. Subject closed. I didn’t know you had a kid of your own.’

  ‘How could you?’ I said. ‘Forget it.’

  So he did and we ordered another round of drinks.

  ‘So what about this band then?’ I said. ‘What’s the full SP?’

  ‘Come again,’ said Seltza.

  ‘Starting price,’ I explained. ‘A horse-racing term. I mean, what’s the story from the beginning?’

  ‘Shit,’ said Seltza. ‘How long you got?’

  ‘Long enough. Tell me.’

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ said Chick, ‘this is the dyingest band in the world. Trash was real lucky.’

  ‘No, man,’ said Turdo. ‘This ain’t the dyingest band. The unluckiest, yeah, but the dyingest, no.’

  ‘Who then?’ said Chick.

  ‘T-Rex,’ said Turdo. ‘All them mothers dead.’

  ‘Lynyrd Skynyrd,’ said Seltza. ‘Or The Allman Brothers.’

&nbs
p; ‘How about The Bar-Kays?’ said Turdo.

  Chick thought about it. ‘OK, maybe they ain’t the dyingest band. But they’re fucking close.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ I said.

  ‘Christ!’ said Chick, and started ticking off on his fingers. ‘The first drummer they had took too much acid and freaked out. One guitarist joined The Moonies. Another ended up in a mental hospital.’

  ‘No, man, that was another drummer,’ interrupted Seltza. ‘That crazy fucker Bobby Boyle, or whatever the hell his name was.’

  ‘Two drummers ended up on the funny farm,’ said Chick. ‘But they let Boyle out again. I was talking to Roger the Dodger about it.’

  ‘Carry on,’ I said.

  ‘Two of them died in a car crash. They were racing Corvettes to Las Vegas for the pink slips. Neither of the fuckers would give way. One keyboard player OD’d after a week. He couldn’t stand the pressure. He was only eighteen. Never been away from home. Seven days on the road with The Box, and the cat’s dropping ’ludes like there’s no tomorrow. One morning he just never woke up. Then Jackie Mulligan, played bass, took angel dust with Pandora. They found the poor fucker face down in the parking lot. He was so crazy he’d stuck his head under the wheels of a Mack truck.’

  ‘Strictly speaking that wasn’t an OD,’ said Seltza. ‘The verdict was suicide.’

  ‘Same thing,’ said Chick wisely. ‘Sapperstein crashed his plane, and Griff Fender got electrocuted on stage. This band’s had more members than the fuckin’ Boston Philharmonic.’

  ‘How many?’ I asked.

  ‘God knows. Seventeen… eighteen.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right, Chick,’ said Turdo. ‘Maybe this is the dyingest band.’

  We all cogitated on that remark for a while.

  ‘So listen,’ said Seltza, changing the subject, ‘who’s coming up to get shit-faced in my little corner of the world? I’ve got some outstanding grass.’

  Turdo said he was going to call up his girl and see what she was doing, Chick said he’d be delighted, and I tagged along for the ride.

  Seltza’s room was just that – a room. But a decent double and pretty luxurious. He’d installed a stereo compact disc player and stuck on the first Doors album.

  He adjusted the volume and pulled a tray with papers and a bag of grass in it out of one of the drawers of his bureau.