AHMM, July-August 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  She watched the roadies pick up the instruments and disconnect the amplifier cables. Ground hum filled the auditorium, and Barnes's ears gradually stopped ringing so he could distinguish other conversations around him.

  "I'd forgotten what a voice Debra has.” Meg's slim hips led him toward the aisle on their left.

  "She's terrific.” Barnes heard Meg's words register. "Forgotten? You mean you worked with her too?"

  "Yeah.” Meg had played nearly three thousand gigs after dropping out of college during her freshman year, retiring when her marriage began to take on water. “And Sugar. But I told you that."

  "You did.” Barnes remembered that she knew the band's manager, too, which was how she scored the tickets, backstage passes, and invitation to the launch party. “And you promised you'd introduce me."

  "I did, didn't I?” In her charcoal suit and red silk blouse, she looked like a flamboyant corporate lawyer, her hair in an elaborate French twist. “Come on, let's pay our respects."

  The security guard, big enough to need a border sign, nodded at their passes, and they stepped backstage. Meg drew the air deep into her lungs and held it until her pale face glowed.

  "You miss it, don't you?” Barnes asked.

  "Just the good parts.” Her voice made him think of bearskin rugs in front of a fireplace. If necessary, she could supply the fire too. “Not the sixty-fifth take at two in the morning because the producer didn't like the drum sound. But that never happened with Jimmy. Speaking of whom . . ."

  Jimmy Talbot's eyes had that What-do-you-mean-we-don't-have-brakes look when he spotted Meg and dashed over, his movements jerky as cheap animation.

  "God, Megan, how long has it been?"

  "Too long, Jimmy.” They hugged. “What a voice! Swear to God, she could make a banshee cry."

  "Yeah.” Talbot was only a few inches taller than Meg's five four and not much heavier, but his nervous energy made him seem mere seconds from achieving escape velocity. “Christ, I remember when she walked into the studio, still in high school. She opened her mouth and that voice came out, I fell in love. Swore I'd make her a star, and now, finally . . ."

  "I remember you saying she was going to be bigger than Mariah Carey even then."

  "Promise is the real deal.” Talbot's eyes focused on an invisible marquee. “The CD's in stores tomorrow, we play Boston tomorrow night. Rolling Stone is putting Debra and Quince on the cover next week. It's gonna happen."

  "It's about time you had a winner, Jimmy.” Meg took Barnes's hand. “Jimmy, this is my one and only, Zach Barnes. Barnes, Jimmy and I did—what, forty, fifty sessions?—back when you were with Fallen Angel Records."

  "At least,” Talbot agreed. “Nice to meet you, Barnes."

  "You too."

  Sugar Crisp emerged from a dressing room in a white shirt and charcoal slacks, stopping dead when he recognized Meg. Barnes didn't blame him: She usually wore her espresso-colored waves in a ponytail that tumbled below her shoulder blades.

  "Good golly, Miss Molly. Megan?"

  Meg disappeared into Crisp's huge embrace, and Barnes realized she was eating every second like candy, the life she'd left behind.

  "Damn, little lady, look at you. You didn't have to dress up special just for me."

  "Actually, Sugar, it isn't just for you."

  Before Meg could say more, Crisp looked down at Barnes over her shoulder and stuck out a hand.

  "I can tell you with the lady. I'm Sugar."

  Up close, his eyes retained every second of his life on the road. He had about four inches on Barnes, but his handshake wouldn't crush a rose petal. The man made his living with those fingers and didn't need to get into a squeezing match.

  "Meg's been talking about seeing you again for days,” Barnes told him. “And I still try to pick stuff off your old records. Nobody plays a seven string like you do."

  "You play?"

  "Not well enough to get beyond the fantasies."

  "Ain't nothing wrong with that. And you with one of the biggest fantasies in Dee-troit.” Crisp turned back to Meg. “Megan, honey, what you been up to besides finding yourself a good man?"

  "I've gone straight, Sugar.” Meg's voice felt thick enough to spread on toast. “I'm a computer wonk for the Detroit PD now."

  "Damn.” The big man grimaced like he heard a bum note. “Tell me you still play."

  "Yeah, it's just for fun, but I still do at least an hour a day, usually two."

  While Meg and Crisp traded war stories, Barnes watched Quince Peters slide through Debra Yearning's dressing room door. Close up, he was roughly Barnes's height, his black hair and leotard reminding Barnes of a burnt matchstick. His hair was still plastered to his forehead and a towel dangled from his hand. If his face had any less color, Barnes would have brandished a crucifix.

  "Well, look at you, Sugar,” Meg said. “You were as busy as I was, and now you've joined a band too."

  "I like playing with these people.” Crisp waved a hand the size of a briefcase. “I better, we got fifty-four gigs in the next sixty days. We gonna kill ‘em dead or kill ourselves."

  Meg winced. “Another reason I liked session work. I never had to get used to a new bed every night."

  "Lotta guys woulda been honored to help you, little lady."

  "Speaking of fantasies—” Talbot never took his eyes off Debra Yearning's door. “—Megan, did I hear that you're with the cops now?” He turned to Barnes. “Are you PD?"

  "Not anymore,” he said.

  Voices drilled through Debra Yearning's door. Barnes heard “asshole” and “bitch.” Love talk.

  Talbot pounded on the outside. “Debra? You okay? Quince? Let me in."

  The voices inside became louder, and so did Talbot's pounding.

  "Debra,” he shouted. “Open the friggin’ door."

  "Dickhead,” Debra yelled.

  Peters yanked the door open, slammed into Talbot, and stormed down the hall. The lock clicked again while Barnes was helping Talbot to his feet.

  "Oh, those crazy kids.” Meg rolled her eyes like an indulgent aunt.

  "Aw, man,” Crisp said. “Not again. Megan, you coming to the party?"

  Her smile turned her into the high school prom queen. “Jimmy sent us tickets."

  Crisp cocked a finger at Barnes before he went after Peters.

  "God,” Talbot said. “I live through this tour, I'll live forever."

  "What's the trouble, Jimmy?” Meg eyed the locked door. “I remember Debra when she was still Basia Grzyczyk from Hamtramck. Back then, she wouldn't say ‘shit’ if she had a mouthful."

  Talbot finished dusting himself off. “She and Quince found they could make beautiful music together. All kinds."

  "We heard the duet.” When Meg arched one eyebrow, she resembled a delinquent pixie. “They still do lots of anti-freeze?” Part of her own legend in the Detroit studios stemmed from her having “no bad habits.” The other part came from her ability to read anything and everything instantly, which Barnes knew was the result of her playing symphony scores upside down for practice.

  "She quit a couple months ago.” Talbot stepped aside for a bearded roadie pushing a cart of Marshall speaker cabinets, “Promise” stenciled in white on the sides. He rapped on Debra Yearning's door again; it opened slowly and he disappeared inside.

  "Basia Grzyczyk?” Barnes demanded.

  "Yeah.” Meg watched a woman half her own age and wearing a quarter as much fabric lean close to Chuck Boyle, the drummer. He wore a tank top that showed off impressive biceps. Coupled with his rust-colored mustache, they made him resemble a blacksmith from a different age. His eyes looked down the woman's halter far enough to see China.

  "Bet her I.Q. is one point below seventy,” Meg remarked.

  "I don't think they're discussing quantum theory,” Barnes replied.

  The Rhodes Theater gradually emptied, the roadies moving fourteen tons of equipment out the stage door and onto a truck that would carry it to Detroit Metropolitan Air
port. Barnes remembered Talbot's comment that the band would perform in Boston the following night. Tonight, everyone headed for the Algonquin Hotel and the tour launch party.

  Meg wrapped her long fingers around his. “Knowing Jimmy, I'll bet even the hors d'oeuvres kick serious ass. You ready to mingle with the legends?"

  "If you think I'm dressed okay."

  "It's rock and roll, Barnes.” She looked at his sport coat and jeans, the Billy Joel look, but with pecs. He wore the coat out of habit, even though he wasn't wearing his gun.

  "Let's party."

  * * * *

  Meg guessed right about Jimmy's refreshments. The red-coated servers at the Algonquin ballroom wove among the guests in a labyrinth of tables laden with enough wine, cheese, fruit, salads, crackers, and sandwiches to feed a small country, while four bartenders worked a bar big enough for tennis. Barnes and Meg sipped champagne and watched Debra Yearning enter on the arm of Quince Peters. She wore a silver tank top with a bare midriff to highlight her belly button ring.

  "Whoa.” Meg cocked an eyebrow at the girl's latex-thin silver slacks. “If those rode any lower, they'd need heels."

  "I guess she's proud of her tattoo,” Barnes said.

  "Yeah, a flower growing out of your butt is real attractive.” Meg shook her head. “Listen to me. I sound like an old lady."

  With her short bleached hair and pale skin, Debra Yearning resembled a blue-eyed Q-tip. No longer having to look up to her on the stage, Barnes saw that she was slightly taller than Meg and weighed even less. Peters gave the photographers a chilled smile and strode toward the bar. He wore a black shirt and a white scarf that flapped to his knees; Barnes couldn't tell whether he was trying to be Keith Richards or a World War I pilot.

  Talbot appeared a few minutes later in a sincere suit and a tie that encouraged the viewers to wear dark glasses. Deciding that the goosed rabbit look was Talbot's default mode, Barnes watched him work the entire room in minutes, never taking his eyes off Debra and Quince. He shook hands and laughed at something from a man who kept patting his shoulder, then strode beyond three tables to air kiss a woman whose features reminded Barnes of fault planes.

  Chuck the drummer was handing the girl in the halter top endless glasses of champagne; Barnes wondered whether her stomach was on fire. As the festivities grew louder, their heads moved closer together and his hand disappeared behind her back. When she stood a little straighter, Barnes didn't wonder why.

  In his white shirt and dark slacks, Crisp looked like he missed his pipe and cardigan. He hung out near the veggie platter with a Bud Light and a brigade of admirers. Unlike Peters, he greeted everyone warmly. Barnes heard someone ask him about Bucky Pizzarelli, the jazz guitarist who played a seven string back in the sixties, but a burst of laughter from the fruit platter drowned out his response.

  Bass player Frank Tolliver, his arms camouflaged in ivy vine tattoos, held hands with a spectacular brunette. She watched the crowd swirl around them and occasionally greeted someone with a hug and a smile that almost matched Meg's. Barnes noticed she wore a simple gold band and that neither she nor Frank touched the champagne flutes on the table before them. Voices filled the room like ground hum from the amplifiers, and the air conditioning made Barnes's sinuses itch.

  A beefy man with gelled hair above a three-piece suit towered over Debra Yearning, who listened to him with no expression on her white face. When he stopped talking, she shrugged vaguely and retreated to the veggie platter. At the other end of that table, Quince Peters autographed a program for a busty redhead by resting it on her rear. Debra glared at him before another suit gained her attention. Peters gave the redhead a grin that almost involved drooling before he noticed that his glass was empty and turned toward the bar.

  An hour later, Barnes thought he had recognized Ted Nugent and members of the Dirtbombs and the Detroit Cobras. He saw Meg chatting with Sugar Crisp again, her smile lighting up the whole room. He had yet to figure out how she could mingle with four hundred people for hours and still look as fresh as when she stepped out her front door. Her energy pulsated the way it did when she greeted Talbot backstage, but now she held a glass of ginger ale.

  "You switched from champagne,” Barnes said, sidling up to her. He himself sipped coffee.

  "It gives me a headache,” she said.

  "You've got aspirin at home,” he said, adding, “and I can help you relax."

  Jimmy Talbot scurried toward the bar. Barnes expected him to pull out a huge pocket watch and proclaim, “I'm late!"

  "I talked with Debra.” Meg sipped her ginger ale and Barnes saw lipstick on the glass, another rarity. “If she were wound up any tighter, Sugar could play a solo on her."

  "What's the trouble?"

  "I think a lot of it's nerves about the tour, but it feels like there's something else too."

  Half an hour later, sharp voices cut through the hum and Barnes turned from spreading Brie on a cracker to watch Talbot separate Quince Peters from Debra Yearning.

  "You just try it, you little bitch,” Peters snarled. Talbot took a glass out of his hand as smoothly as a pickpocket removes a wallet. “You are so full of—"

  "Hey, kids.” Talbot plunked the glass on the nearest table. “It's a party, remember?” Barnes moved up to help and saw Sugar Crisp approaching from his right, but Debra Yearning pushed toward the door.

  "Deb . . .” Talbot said. He glanced at Crisp and Barnes, then followed her.

  "Hey, Quince,” Crisp said. “Let's get some chow, okay?"

  "I'll tear her eyes out—” Peters's voice could flay skin. “—and make her eat them."

  Barnes and Crisp maneuvered him to a corner. Meg materialized too.

  "That suit,” Peters went on. “The guy with the hair like frosting? He's from Sony. He was talking to Debra about buying out our contract."

  "Sony?” Crisp's eyes widened. “Shoot, they could make us big as Staind. What kind of money they offering?"

  Peters studied Crisp with bloodshot eyes. “They're already talking about getting Jack White to produce the next CD."

  "What about Jimmy?"

  "He just told me he's not part of the deal. And keep going. Think it through."

  Crisp's eyebrows lowered over narrowed eyes. “No, man, you not serious."

  "Yeah, White'd play the guitar parts. You'd be gone. Me too. They want the skinny bitch as a solo."

  "Did she tell you she was interested?” Meg's purr was so soft Peters actually stopped to listen. He used all his concentration to turn his head ninety degrees.

  "And you would be . . . ?"

  "This is Megan Traine, Quince,” Crisp said. “She played with Jimmy and me back in the day. Best session keyboards in Detroit."

  "I gigged with Debra too,” Meg said, “and I can't believe she'd drop you like that."

  Talbot appeared, his mouth moving like a fish dumped on the shore. Sweat glistened on his forehead. “Quince,” he said. “Nothing's gonna happen, okay? It's under control."

  "I'm gonna rip her face off."

  "Quince.” Talbot put his palms on the man's shoulders and leaned forward until their noses almost touched. “We play Boston tomorrow night, you got two months of touring, you got Promises in the Dark hitting every record store in the U S of A tomorrow morning, you're gonna be huge. And you've been telling me about your new songs. Get those suckers down on paper, okay?"

  "That . . . “

  "Quince. Look at me. She's just yanking your chain. You get those songs down on paper. She's gonna love them, you know that. You two write magic together. Don't worry, okay? She's just tense. After all this time, you know how she gets after a show, right? She's still revved up the rest of the night. She'll be okay, you know that."

  Talbot led Meg and Barnes away, one black shoe sporting a white lace with a huge double knot.

  "Sweet bleeding Jesus,” he muttered.

  "You okay, Jimmy?” Meg asked.

  "My blood pressure's like a volcano. I'm gonna burst right he
re in the Algonquin ballroom and die."

  "Can I get you something?” Barnes offered.

  "A prefrontal lobotomy. I gotta find Debra again."

  "You want help?"

  Talbot waved them off. “She'd freak if she saw a whole posse. I'll just talk with her a little more. She's a lot more reasonable now that she's on the wagon."

  "That's good to hear.” Meg finished her ginger ale. “What made her quit?"

  "She and Quince got ripped after a gig, I think it was Indianapolis. They had a major screaming fit, trashed the bar, and she took off. When we tracked her down, she was sucking down club soda, and that was it. Quince is taking up the slack."

  "Where'd she go?"

  "She was hanging with her sister. She called Quince when she'd calmed down, I guess two, three days later."

  "Jimmy,” Barnes said. “I've got to compliment you on the fashion statement.” He motioned to the man's shoes.

  Talbot chuckled. “Oh. Yeah. I broke a lace changing after the concert; the only spare I had was in my sneakers. That's why I was late."

  He watched Sugar escort Peters to the bar and wave for the bartender's attention. “I gotta find Deb."

  Barnes wrapped his arm around Meg's shoulders and she nestled into him. “Careful,” she said, “someone will think you're trying to put your moves on me."

  "Want more champagne?"

  Her hair smelled like peppermint as her arm went around his waist. “No holster. You must feel partly undressed."

  "Hold that thought, okay?"

  Sony, Barnes thought. And Debra Yearning as a solo. Promises in the Dark would become a hit CD that might have been only the beginning. Both Crisp and Talbot were getting too old for another chance.

  Talbot reappeared, his hands shaking and his face glowing with sweat.

  "Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Megan, I gotta ask you a favor. I'm on my knees."

  "Not here, Jimmy.” Meg watched him buckle. “You want me to talk to her?"

  "I thought we were getting somewhere, then she went crazy on me again, locked herself in the ladies’ room down the hall. I pounded on the door, begged her to come out. Then I snuck back here for you. She thinks I'm still outside."