“Dr Phillips is right. You're twisting the answers back to front and you know you are. For you, with your medical problems, those pills are the answer, sure. They get you through the day pretty much in one piece and that's a damn good achievement, but you know damn well I was talking about the illegal kind. There have got to be several alternative answers to any problem before you need to fall back on that one. So promise me that you are not going to do anything rash.”
“Don't worry, I promise. Hey, I really do want to do this tour straight, you know. For one thing it'll be an education. I might finally get to see some of the countryside. I was so stoned on the other tours, all I've got is a few flashbacks of sheep and a hazy memory of a blond roadie in the flys of some theatre.”
Avi's eyes widened.
“What blond roadie?”
“Um... I don't remember his name. I don't remember a damn thing actually but I think it was good.”
“Yeah, well that's another thing you'd better watch out for this tour. It's a bloody miracle you haven't got A.I.D.S. yet. You play in both the high-risk groups.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, and you've always been a bloody angel,” Kit tempered the insult with a smile. “You used to go with heaps more groupies on tours than I ever had roadies and you straight guys aren't immune, no matter how many prayers you slip up every day.”
Avi laughed good humouredly at Kit's small dig at his family's religious beliefs. Their friendship was founded on a solid enough base to allow free trade in minor insults and the fact that Kit had made the joke signified his black mood was dissipating. He decided it was a good time to change the subject.
“Another coffee?” he asked.
“Yeah. Why not?” Kit moved to turn on the electric jug. Avi collected the two cups and followed him into the kitchen.
"What blond roadie?”
“I don't remember,” Kit laughed. “Maybe it was a sheep.”
“No, that was Gary,” Avi answered, deadpan.
“He's not blond.”
“No, but his sheep was.”
Kit laughed again, then turned and enveloped Avi in a hug.
“Thanks.”
“Quite all right,” Avi returned the gesture, unembarrassed. “What did I do?”
“Made me feel better. Maybe it's just Danny. Maybe he just gets right up my nose.”
“No maybe, that's a bloody certainty!”
“Talking about Danny, or rather, seeing he's not here to interfere, can you tell me exactly what is going to happen in the bridge of that bloody song he was ranting about earlier?”
“Which rant in particular? Which song?”
“You know,” Kit carried his now replenished cup back to the lounge and sat down. “The one about the welder and the dweeb.”
“The what?” Avi was totally mystified. He had written every song in the band's set and Kit's description meant nothing.
“The welder and the dweeb.” Kit repeated. “Well, that's what the words sound like through my foldback.”
Avi ran his hands over his stubble, thinking fast.
“How does it go?” he asked nervously.
“Oh, you know,” Kit answered, “like this.” However, rather than supply Avi with the melody, he reached forwards and tapped out a beat on the coffee table with his hands.
“Yeah, thanks. That helps a hell of a lot,” Avi grinned.
“It's in A flat and has that walking bass intro,” Kit tried again. Light dawned.
“You do well to dream!” Avi spluttered. “Welder and dweeb indeed! Christ, Kit, are you sure you're not sniffing something up behind those drums?” He gasped quickly as he realised he may have said the wrong thing, but Kit's mood had definitely improved and he wasn't taking offence. A second thought caused Avi to gasp again. “Could you really not pick up the proper words or were you having me on?”
“No.” Kit's reply was serious. “But then I can't say I listen that closely. Not to Danny anyway. I've got Kelly turned up full in my cans and just enough of Danny and the rest of you so I can hear your leads and fills. Doesn't matter a damn to me what words he sings.”
“Yeah, I think I'll ask the others though. I'd hate to think the punters out the front can't understand us. I spend a lot of time on those lyrics, they're supposed to be deeply meaningful.” He sounded hurt but his glinting brown eyes made a lie of his expression. “So what did you want to know?”
“I'm not sure where Danny wants the stops. He's changed his mind about four times and now if I try to ask him he just shouts at me. Kelly seems as confused as I am. We're trying to follow each other and just end up spiralling up each other's ..., well, um, getting more confused. Have you got time to run over it a couple of times? I'd appreciate it.”
“Sure, let's go out the back. I'll show you on the Roland.”
“Great.”
Joanna Greenwood whistled to herself as she strode jauntily down the Avon Loop towards the central city. She had enjoyed telling that jumped-up little jerk what she thought of him. Silly little twerp. Who the hell did he think he was? Joanna had very little tolerance for fools and none at all for arrogant ones like Danny Gordon. Telling him what she thought had put a nice edge on her day. She always liked a good argument, especially when she won.
Now, to top it all off, she had some hours up her sleeve to go shopping. It was time to find that elusive little number she had been seeking to take on tour. Something scarlet and revealing in all the right places. So what if her extremely religious parents would have a fit and call her a slut - they were never going to see it, she would make sure of that. Okay, so maybe she was being a bit daring. So what if her figure was a little too generous to ever land her a job as a fashion model, she was all in proportion and had legs that looked damned fine in a short skirt. At least she had something to put in it. So what if her penchant for cream cakes meant she would look like her mother one day, that was a long way off yet and, damn it, the mere thought of them made her hungry again. She was just debating stopping for a quick fix at the bakery when a car horn tooted beside her. She turned to find Mike beckoning from behind the steering wheel.
“Want a lift?” he inquired. “I'm going into town, I can take you as far as the Cashel Street parking building.”
“Great, thanks.” Jo accepted with alacrity and climbed aboard.
“What do you reckon we should do about that bastard?” Mike asked as he pulled back into the traffic.
“By 'that bastard' I have to assume you mean Danny? I don't know. I guess it's not really my problem, is it? I mean, I'm only on this tour to do back-up vocals, I don't have to live with him all the time, like you guys. I've got to admit though, polytech's going to seem really peaceful in comparison.”
“Going back next year, are you?”
“Yeah, two down, one to go then I'll be Joanna Greenwood Dip Jazz or something. I don't think Mum thinks the jazz diploma is as fancy as darling-mister-super-perfect-cousin's double psychology and music degree, but I reckon it’s every bit as hard to get.”
“You've got a real competition thing going with Avi, haven't you?” Mike inquired.
“You noticed?” Jo laughed. “I've had Super Cousin thrown up at me all my life. It's a wonder I don't hate him.”
“You've just decided to prove you're as good as he is.”
“Of course I am, better probably. It's making them realise it that's the difficult part. Actually, I like Avi in spite of all the parental hype. But then I know a few of his vices.”
“I'll bet you do!” Mike concentrated on his driving for a few moments than tried again. “Any ideas though? About Danny, I mean.”
“Well, as I told Avi earlier, if the guy's such a jerk just get rid of him. No contract's that watertight, surely.”
“My thoughts exactly. I've been giving the matter a lot of thought lately. I'm sick to death of the way he's been hassling Kit. He's a nice guy really, Kit that is, and it's not his fault he's a bit screwed up. He's trying really hard and the last thing he needs i
s Danny flying off the handle at him all the time.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Well,” Mike paused thoughtfully as he negotiated a corner. “Contracts. Use one contract to break another.” He winked at Jo. “I'm off now to negotiate a deal with my hitman.”
“Oh, right.” Jo felt it was inappropriate to ask any more. Anyway, Mike was now pulling into a vacant slot in the car-park and preparing to depart. Jo did likewise, although preferring the lift to the stairs. Mike turned as he headed down the staircase.
“Jo,” he threw back. “A favour. You haven't seen me since we left Kit's, okay? We haven't spoken.”
Danny Gordon powered his huge car away from the rehearsal venue in a cloud of exhaust fumes that matched his mood. Faggots, the whole lot of them. Poncey, ignorant faggots. Great band, yeah right! A poofter, an upper-class twit and the bloody Bobsey Twins. And Kiesanowski. Bloody Polak. He would keep.
Crashing red lights and squealing the tyres on the intersections, Danny thundered the V8 monster out of the far end of the Loop onto Fitzgerald Avenue towards the gymnasium. Maybe if he pumped some iron for a couple of hours he could forget about those other wimps. At the thought of them he snorted derisively. Not a body between them. Simmons and Livingstone, pair of faggots, three inches wide across the shoulders if they were lucky! Danny flexed his own overly-developed shoulders, taking an almost sexual pleasure in the feeling of the seatbelt rubbing against his finely honed muscles. He might be short but it was a long, long time since anyone had dared make a joke about it.
He smiled as he pulled into the gymnasium car-park. He liked this place. He was somebody important here. Doubly important. He was Danny Gordon, famous rock musician. He was also Danny Gordon, champion power lifter. Young men looked up to him. Young women fell at his feet. Or so he believed. And judging by his reception as he walked into the building, he could have been right. Several equally well-developed young men did call out and wave greetings and two voluptuous leotard-clad young girls wasted no time in flinging themselves around his neck with ego-soothing cries of “Oh, Danny!”. He thought again, fleetingly, of his fellow band members and allowed himself a self-satisfied smirk. Eat your heart out, Simmons, this is a real man.
Avi was guiltily disposing of the wrappings from fish and chips when the phone rang. Guilt was a normal by-product of food as far as Avi was concerned. His up-bringing had been unusual in an ultra-conservative, old-testament-based religion that was considered by outsiders to be a cult. To his father everything that was pleasurable was also evil and that included food with tasty fillings. In his head he heard his father lecturing on temptation and the road to hell. He secretly envied Jo's more lenient family who had a slightly wider view of what food was acceptable, and admired the way she could demolish a pizza and a cream bun with no qualms whatsoever. He also felt guilty about working on Friday evenings as Friday evening to Saturday evening was their holy day of rest so working on it was another of his father's roads to hell. But, no matter how religious his father was, Avi was a pragmatist. He had to be to remain a working musician. He knew his parents disapproved, but Friday and Saturday was when rock music was played and, as he had told his mother several times, even if there were enough weddings, birthdays and business conventions to keep him employed, he would go insane playing the boring covers they involved. And pragmatism at this time of the day in the present circumstances had demanded that Kit and himself be fed, so Avi had shelved his guilty feelings, yet again, and taken the path of least resistance - in this case, up Oxford Terrace to the fish and chip shop.
The phone's ring blasted over the cd playing on the stereo. Kit started, looked nervously at Avi to see if he had noticed, then reached forward to take the receiver with a shaking hand.
“Yeah?” he said hesitantly.
“Kit,” the voice on the other end sounded cheerful. “It's Mike. I've got a fax here on my machine addressed to you. From someone signing themselves K.B.”
“Oh yeah?” Kit was interested.
“Yeah. Says, and I quote, Deal finalised. First shipment due in eight weeks. Cash on delivery. Signed K.B. That make sense to you?”
“Yeah, thanks, Mike.”
“So?” Mike was intrigued. “What's it all about?”
“Um,” Kit hesitated noticeably. “I don't want to say at the moment, if that's okay? It's ... um... sort of secret.”
“Secret, huh? It had better be legal, especially if you're going to use my fax machine as an address.”
“Um...”
“Um what? It is legal isn't it?” Mike sounded sharp.
“Yeah, yeah,” Kit replied too quickly. “I reckon.”
“You'd better reckon right then. If this is some kind of bullshit, you'll be in more trouble from me than you've ever seen from Danny.”
“No, honestly, it's okay, it's just... I can't tell you about it at the moment.”
“You're giving out my fax number to someone who doesn't even sign their name, you won't tell me what it's about but I'm expected to believe it's okay just because you say so? Is that it?”
“Yeah, pretty much. Thanks, Mike. See you tomorrow.” Kit hung up quickly, his hand shaking even more. Avi returned from the kitchen bearing cups of coffee, one of which he handed to Kit.
“Secrets, huh? Arranging your love life?”
“No such luck,” Kit laughed. “It was Mike.” He offered no further explanation.
The young woman huddled on the edge of the tombstone, snuggling her jacket collar tightly around her ears to keep out the wind. She looked at her watch. Eleven thirty three. The lights in the little house over the river had been out for almost an hour. She would wait a while longer before going over. It was a bright night. And anyway, that other dude was still there. She had watched him arrive, looking up and down the street just as he always did. Why did he bother? He wasn't exactly inconspicuous, even if he thought he was. After all, she knew all about him but he'd never spotted her. None of them had ever spotted her. Not even Kester.
Kester Simmons woke with a start. Again. He groaned, ran his hands through his now tangled, sweat-dampened hair and squinted through the darkness at his watch. Three o'clock. He turned over, flung his face into his pillow and cried aloud.
“Please! Not again! Please! Just let me sleep!”
CHAPTER THREE
Avi was late. Mike had been early. Purposefully. It had nothing to do with being conscientious, or being in the least bit nervous about getting a blast from Danny for tardiness. It was curiosity. He had found Kit sitting in one of the huge armchairs, rocking gently, unshaven and bleary-eyed, his hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles showed white. Mike held out a sheet of paper.
“Here's your fax,” he announced by way of greeting.
For several seconds Kit appeared unaware of his presence and continued to rock. Then just as the silence became so obvious that Mike considered speaking again, Kit looked up.
“Oh, hi, Mike. I didn't hear you come in.”
“Here's your fax,” Mike repeated, holding it out.
“Oh, thanks,” Kit replied, but made no effort to take the paper. Mike gave up and placed it on the dining table.
“Are you okay? You look terrible.”
“I don't feel so good.”
“Should you be working today?”
“Well I'm sure not going to be the one to tell Danny that I can't.”
“What's up? You didn't look too good yesterday either. You coming down with the flu or something?”
“Maybe,” Kit grabbed at an acceptable answer, although he knew it wasn't the truth. “I'll be okay by the time we tour.”
“Yeah, hey, do you want a coffee?”
“Thanks.”
Mike moved to the kitchen, calling back to Kit over his shoulder.
“Say, I don't mean to be nosey, but what was that fax all about?”
Kit hauled himself from the chair and followed him into the kitchen, brushing his hair back as he walked.
“Sorry, Mike. I really don't want to say anything at the moment.”
“Not acceptable. It's my fax machine. You owe me.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Kit admitted partial defeat. “I've been offered a chance to make some money, which I need real bad at the moment. But the guy who's running this thing, the guy who sent the fax, has told me not to say anything. If it gets out, I don't get paid. So I'm sorry, I really can't tell you. Not yet anyway. Maybe after I've been paid.”
“Kit are you sure it's legal?”
“Um...” Kit stalled, thinking fast. “Well, I sure as hell don't want to go back to prison, and I'm too stupid not to get caught. Don't panic, your fax machine is safe.”
Mike spun round, thrusting a cup of coffee forward like a weapon.
“Like I said last night, it had damn well better be. You involve me in anything daft and I'll make Danny Gordon look like a pussy cat, got that?”
“Yeah, I got that.” He took the coffee with both hands but that still wasn't enough to stop the cup shaking violently. Kit placed it hurriedly on the breakfast bar and thrust his hands quickly into his pockets. Mike noticed but chose not to mention it. He tried a different approach.
“So who is this K.B. bloke anyway?”
“I'm not sure. Keith something. Barnett or something like that. I haven't actually met him.”
“So how come he's got you doing a job for him?”
“He rang me. He seems to know me. Well, he knows who I am anyway. I have a funny feeling I'm supposed to know him but I can't remember. The name's familiar but I don't know from where.”
“An old tour, maybe?” Mike hazarded a guess.
“Yeah, it's possible. It would certainly explain why I can't remember.” Kit didn't offer the suggestions that had seemed to him even more likely, namely Paparoa prison or Sunnyside psychiatric hospital. He was having enough problems fobbing Mike off without adding to his concerns. “He's American,” he finally added.
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