by W E DeVore
Ben trailed closely behind her. “You have got to be kidding me. But Tom is such a…”
“Stoner, yes.”
“And isn’t his wife…”
“Black, yes.” Q stopped on the landing and turned to Ben. “You can’t say anything. Tom’s mama ran off with his dad and they haven’t had anything to do with the Multers for decades. That’s all you need to know.”
“But Gus Multer?” Ben asked, clearly intrigued.
“Uh-uh. I’ve told you too much already. Now shut up and help me get this freakin’ bass rig into Tom’s Jeep.”
A few minutes later, Q and Tom were silently driving down North Broad. Tom’s eyes were fixed straight on the road and both hands were firmly grasping the steering wheel. Under normal circumstances, Q would have been relieved that he wasn’t tapping out the drum solo for Witch Hunt and smoking a joint so obviously that any NOPD cruiser barely paying attention would notice. Silence and stillness were never good signs where Tom Wills was concerned.
She decided to take one for the team and bait herself for a good ribbing. “Sorry I overslept, Tom. Ben and I were up kind of late.”
Tom shrugged.
“Oh come on! You don’t want to say anything about Ben being in my apartment. Not even after the last month?” She hoped she came off as easy breezy but knew it was a stretch.
“What should I have to say, Clementine? You’re a grown ass woman. Who you share your bed with isn’t any business of mine. Besides, like I told you before, I’m happy you finally found someone to put up with you.”
More silence.
Before she could come up with anything better to say, Tom abruptly pulled over to the side of the road and slammed on the brakes.
“Gus Multer?!” Tom yelled at her. “What in the hell is happening? Why the fuck are we playing for any party he’s at, let alone one that he’s throwing?”
“Tom, I didn’t know when we got the gig. I only found out last night and by then it was too late. I’d already signed the contract and promised the money to Urian when Ben told me who was hosting the party.”
“He called my mama a whore, Q.”
“Tommy…” She tried to calm him down.
“A whore. My mama. Mine! She worked all day teaching in a public school, raised four kids, and never complained or missed that big ol’ house out on Highland Road. That bastard couldn’t have even run for office if he hadn’t got her half of the inheritance.”
“I know, Tom, and I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say. Apologizing seemed to be the only thing she was doing lately.
“No, Q, you don’t know. My mama was fucking crazy enough to fall in love with a Chauvin shrimp boat captain and marry him and raise four kids with him and stay married to him for going on forty years, and that asshole calls her a whore at her own father’s funeral.”
“I’m sorry, Tom. And as soon as Urian has his cash, you can punch your uncle in the throat. I’ll even help you hold him down. We just don’t have a choice right now.” She felt her stomach tightening and a lump settled in her own throat.
“We don’t have a choice because you don’t let us have choices, Q. You act like this shit is multiple fucking choice when the only answer we can ever choose is ‘E – whatever Q tells us to do.’ It’s fucked up. And this is the last time. You ever pull this shit again and I walk. You hear?”
“I hear you,” she said, trying not to cry.
Tom looked at her for the first time since he began his tirade and said pointedly, “I mean it, Q. You forget for one minute that ‘Q’ does not mean ‘Queen of Tom, Charlie, and Pete’ and I fucking walk.”
She looked down, ashamed. Tom was right. If QT and the Beasts imploded now, Pete was dead, and it’d be her fault. She knew she could be, and mostly was, a bossy control freak most of the time. Maintaining control of her environment and relationships was the only way she knew how to function, but she could feel the reigns willingly slip through her fingers for the first time in a decade. Letting Ben in and letting Pete go was shaking her perception of reality and maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. But the fragility that came with the lack of total control was making her feel off balance.
She thought about Tom’s mother. She’d first heard the story one night after Tom had an uncharacteristic political outburst about the latest stupid thing Gus Multer had said on the campaign trail during his first run for Senate. Christina Multer, daughter of Louisiana Secretary of State, Laurence Multer, met Tommy Wills Sr. on a Gulf Shores beach when she was twenty and he was twenty-three. Tommy Wills was taking a weekend off after delivering shrimp to one of the casinos in Biloxi. From what Tom said, it was love at first sight. The Honorable Larry Multer pegged Tommy Sr. as a gold digger and disowned Christina as soon as she came home with a ring on her finger. According to Tom, his mother kissed his grandmother goodbye, and walked right out the door of the family’s big plantation home in Baton Rouge. The only thing she took with her was the clothes on her back. The Multers were worth millions and Christina Wills walked away from all of it.
Q knew Tom cared even less about the inheritance then his mother did, but no one insulted a member of Tom’s family and got away with it. And Q had just put him in a position where he’d come face to face with his uncle for the first time and not be able to say a word. She knew that in Tom’s mind this was tantamount to letting his miserable excuse of an uncle off the hook for what Multer had done to his sister. She was going to have a lot of making up to do.
Bad News All Around
“You miserable fuck. What have you done?” Charlie growled. He had Pete up against the wall by his throat, which was quite the accomplishment given the height difference.
Pete was shaking. “Charlie, I didn’t think you’d mind, I mean, what was I supposed to live on?”
“How about getting a fucking job, you moron? Or living within your fucking means like the rest of us?” Charlie held onto his advantage.
Q and Tom stood in the doorway to the rehearsal shed watching with mouths agape. She started to go in to break it up, but Tom grabbed her arm. “You ain’t the Queen, remember? Let the man handle his business.”
She backed down and Tom called out to Charlie, “Something the matter, pahdna?”
“Nice of you two to join us,” Charlie snarled. “Look around the room and you tell me what’s the matter.”
Q scanned the room.
Dirty rugs. Check. Tom’s drum kit. Check. Out of tune upright. Check. Microphones, cables. Check, check…wait. Too many cables.
“Where the fuck is the P.A.?” she asked, horrified.
“Ask your boy,” Charlie said. “Care to enlighten her, Pete?”
“Look, Tony from across the hall said he was looking to buy a P.A. for the Balladeres. So, I sold him ours. Paid me fifteen hundred for it. Thought we were getting a new one anyway and I needed the cash. Didn’t think y’all would mind, I mean I’ll pay it back to the band fund when I’m in the black again.”
Tom let out a low whistle. “Boy, you is all kinds of stupid. That was the new P.A. system.”
“Oy-goyim,” Q muttered as she left the room in search of Tony Balladine, she didn’t have far to search. Tony came walking up the hall carrying his new gently used mixer.
“I heard the commotion, thought it might be about this.” He lifted the mixer. “Thought these things were like a thousand bones new. I have the speakers in my room too, just need my cash back.”
“Sorry, Tony,” Q said. “Pete’s not himself right now.”
“No shit. I figured I’d buy it off him before he pawned any of y’all’s gear.” He smiled sheepishly. “Don’t get me wrong, I was hoping it was legit.”
“When did he sell it to you?” she asked, worried.
“Yesterday morning.” Tony’s face fell, coming to the same conclusion.
They both raced into The Beasts’ practice room and said in unison, “Where’s the cash, Pete?”
Charlie’s hand tightened on Pete’s throat. “
Relax, y’all. I got it. Well, mostly I got it. Had to pay rent.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “There's like a thousand left.”
Tony set down the mixer and rushed to grab the money from Pete’s outstretched hand. “Like a thousand? Or one thousand?”
“I don’t know, man, count it,” Pete said.
Tom stifled a giggle and snorted. “Awfully casual with other people’s money, ain’t you, Pocket?”
Tony counted his money and said, “Eight hundred and seventy.”
“Like I said, ‘like a thousand.'" Pete shrugged.
Tom double snorted. Charlie shook his head and let go of Pete’s throat.
Pete stood up and rubbed at his neck. “I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out this, I’m just, what, like three hundred and eighty light?”
“Six thirty,” Q corrected.
“Whatever, I’m not a mathematician.” Pete leaned back casually against the wall.
Charlie punched Pete in the face and his nose instantly exploded into a red fountain as his head bounced off the wall behind him. Charlie handed him his handkerchief.
“What the fuck was that for?” Pete cried, muffled by Charlie’s handkerchief.
“For being a fucking moron,” Charlie said.
Walking over to Tony, he reached into his pocket, pulled off two hundred dollar bills from his money clip, and handed it to him.
Tony shook his head. “Nah, man. It was my bad. We're good.”
Charlie said, “Take it.”
Q took out two fifties from her wallet and passed it to Tony. “We’ll get you the rest after Mardi Gras. Tom will help you get the speakers.”
She walked over to her piano bench. Charlie pulled up the drum throne and sat down next to her. They looked at each other for a long minute. Both of them knew what the other was thinking.
“Let’s wait for Tom,” Q said.
Tom walked in carrying both speakers. “Don’t tell my wife. I’m supposed to be careful with my back… Woh. What?” he said, looking from Q to Charlie.
Tom shrugged. “Got my vote.”
She looked at Charlie and said, “We play a private party on Lundi Gras. It pays five grand. All of that goes to Urian Galanos, who will, in return, not kill Pete.”
Q turned to looked at Pete. “He’ll be there to pick it up, so don’t even think about skipping out.”
Charlie’s eyes widened. She put her hand on his thigh and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Charlie, really I am. I was an idiot for thinking he’d change. This is the last time, I promise. I’m done.”
Charlie took a deep breath, brushed Q’s hand off his leg, and said, “Better play good, Pete. It’s your last gig as a Beast. You’re out.”
“Ah come on now, guys. I’ll get better. This is just a rough patch.”
Q stood up and shook her head. “There’s been too many rough patches, Pete.”
“Please, Q….” Pete looked around for an ally. He turned to Tom. “Come on, Scare. I introduced you to Camilla. I was the best man at your damn wedding. You can’t do this to me.”
“Bad news all around, brother. Camilla will kill me when she finds out we’re not getting an extra grand this month.” Tom adjusted his drum throne and sat down to start warming up.
Q walked over to Pete and squeezed his hand. “Sorry, babe. I’m done. I’m not going to watch you do this to yourself anymore. You’re on your own after this, my debt’s been paid.”
Pete reluctantly nodded and leaned back his head to try to stop his nosebleed.
She pulled the set list out her satchel and announced, “Sorry about this, y’all, but the Multers have some very specific song requests for Lundi gras. Get your fakebooks out, boys.”
Charlie turned to Tom. “As in Senator Gus Multer? Your uncle?”
She walked over to the mixer and started reconnecting cables deciding it was best to be out of the way. Tom kept playing and responded, “That’s the one. Sure wasn’t my idea.”
He hit the drums harder. Charlie set his jaw and lit a cigarette. He took a long drag and asked Q, “So where is this amazing gig you booked us?”
“The Cove,” Q replied. “That’s what Ben wanted to talk to me about on Saturday.”
“That ain’t the only thing,” Tom called out above his drumming. “Clementine’s got herself a boyfriend.”
Charlie’s jaw dropped. “A boyfriend? You’ve got to be shitting me.”
Pete started plugging in the speakers and yelled over Tom’s repetitive kick, kick, snare, kick, snare. “Nope, I seen him, too. He drove her over here to meet me on Sunday.”
“He was still there when I picked her up this morning,” Tom shouted out. “That reminds me, Q, you could have called and said you had a ride to save me a trip.”
She adjusted her mic stand at the piano. “Sorry, Scare. I wasn’t planning on him being there. I was stranded in that rainstorm in the Quarter last night. He rescued me. Forgot what day it was.”
Charlie took a long drag on his cigarette and squinted his eyes at Q. “I thought you was all strung out on Bordelon.”
“Still is,” Tom hollered. “He’s got it worse, though, if you ask me.”
Charlie took another drag and yelled at Tom. “Will you stop that racket?”
Tom complied. Charlie glowered at Q. “Bordelon. Your new boyfriend is Ben Bordelon.”
“We got to talking on the way back to New Orleans last Saturday. I had some things confused.” She thumbed through her fakebook, dog-earing the pages for the songs they had to learn.
“You had some things confused.” Charlie squatted down and took another long, thoughtful drag.
“He’s not like… like I thought he was.”
“And what was that, exactly?” Charlie glared at her.
“Like you, brother. He ain’t a player like you.” Tom called out from behind the drum kit. “I tried to tell you, Q. I know a thing or two about a thing or two.”
It was Q’s turn to glare. “Thanks, Scare, I’ll keep that in mind.”
She went back to her fakebook, hoping to end the discussion; but Charlie wasn’t interested in ending it.
“So, let me get this straight,” he continued. “Bordelon drives forty miles out of his way to what? Offer us a gig that pays five grand? And convince you he’s not the lying sack of shit pussy-chaser you think he is? You get to talkin’ and now everything is right as rain. Does that about cover it?”
She looked up from the sheet music. “Yeah. What? I was wrong, ok? Lay off.”
Charlie replied, mocking Q’s voice and adding an overly girlish lisp that she was fairly certain she didn’t have, “Look guys, I’m sorry, I just can’t play there anymore. You try to perform with him leering at your tits.”
She threw up her hands in frustration. “What do you want me to say, Charlie? I was wrong. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. Christ! If Ben can forgive me for thinking he’s a scumbag, you can cut me some slack, too.”
“Ben forgave you because he wants some ass and doesn’t yet realize you are an insane person,” Charlie said.
Pete butted in, “Jesus, Charlie, harsh much? Cut her some slack. Q’s got a right to some fun.”
“Oh, yeah, you and Q got a right to have all kinds of fun that screws me and Tom out of money. Why is that, Pete? Why don’t I get to have that kind of fun?” Charlie turned back to Q. “When I fuck a girl who works at a club we play, we don’t stop playing there.”
Tom spoke up, “In Q’s defense, if we stopped playing at every club you got lucky in, we’d have to move to Houston.”
Charlie ignored him.
“I get it, Charlie, you’re mad. I am an asshole. Happy?” Q said sarcastically. “Can we just start practice already?”
“No, Clementine, I am not fucking happy. I’m still trying to wrap my brain around this fucking mess you’ve gotten us into.” Charlie stood back up and started pacing.
“So, Bordelon offers you a gig playing for the Multers,” he sai
d loudly, gesturing to Tom. “And you were what? So, blinded by cock lust that you just accepted the gig without talking to Tom or me first?”
The last thing Q was willing to tolerate was a lecture about her dating habits from Charlie Bourdel. She took a deep breath and replied angrily, “First of all, Charlie, I didn’t know it was the Multers that booked us until last night and I’d already signed the fucking contract. Second of all, I had already promised the cash to save that one’s ass.” She pointed at Pete. “And third of all, you leave Ben the fuck out of this. All he did was get us a great paying gig.”
Sensing a point of weakness, Charlie pounced. “Oh, so, what, you’re all in love now? You have a boyfriend and you forget about band practice. He gonna start carrying you over here in that fancy Audi of his so you don’t have to ride in Tom’s hunk of shit?”
“Hey!” Tom whined.
Charlie took two steps closer to Q and snarled, “Seeing as how you’re exchanging sexual favors in return for good paying gigs now, why don’t you help us all out and suck Urian’s dick for the money Pete owes instead of screwing us over!”
Without thinking, Q picked up the empty coffee mug on top of the piano and hurdled it at Charlie’s head. He ducked, instinctively protecting his face with his forearms, and the mug bounced harmlessly off his elbow.
“Cunt!” he screamed.
“Yeah, Charlie, I’m a cunt. I’m a cunt because I won’t let my best friend get murdered by the Greek mob. I’m a cunt because I booked us a gig that pays five fucking G’s without asking for permission from you first. And I’m the biggest cunt of all because I’d rather fuck any man as long as he’s not you. I don’t know what to tell you, baby. I don’t fuck little men who need a gun and to get inside of every stripper in Orleans parish just to prove to the world that they have a dick!”
Charlie threw his forgotten cigarette down on the rug and stubbed it out with his boot. He silently packed up his things and stopped at the door to turn to face Q. "No, Q. You’re a fucking cunt because you’re a spoiled rich brat who only cares about yourself. The rest of us don’t have a rich old granny on St. Charles to catch our backs. You act all tough, but really, you’re just a scared little girl. You, Bordelon, Pete, and Urian fucking Galanos can all go collectively fuck yourselves. I’m out.”
