by P G Loiselle
Monday, August 10, 1987
I dragged my wretched self to my cubicle this morning and expected the worst, especially from Carney. After getting no sleep at all, I was already breaking down at 9:00 a.m. Within minutes of collapsing into my seat, my eyes shut, head dropped and trunk eased forward. I would have crushed my nose on the desktop had the falling motion not startled me awake.
Within a half hour, all the office ladies, having heard the big news, came by to congratulate me on the victory. Carney wasn’t around and his designated stand-in, Martha, a prune-faced old-timer with a nasty trash mouth, also paid a visit. Martha took one look at me and said I looked like complete shit. She chalked it up to Saturday’s battle and the fact that I was probably nervous about all the groupie sluts throwing their stinky underwear at me onstage.
“And one more thing, honey,” she said. “You need time off for that little tour of yours, don’t you?”
“You bet I do,” I said, perking up.
“Between me and you, honey, Carney, that pile of panty waste would never give you two weeks. Officially, he’s on a business trip again, but that ain’t the truth. Don’t say nothing, but some men in little white suits picked him up on Friday and brought him to the loony bin at Butler, in a straitjacket. Now, I’m calling the shots here.” She took out fresh pack of cigarettes and fired one up. “Tell you what,” she said. “My nicotine fund’s getting awful low.” She shoved an old Folgers coffee jar under my nose that contained a few lonely dollar bills and some assorted coins. “Fifty buck donation will get you those two weeks off, and the rest of the day too.”
“Fifty bucks?”
“Ain’t enough for you?”
“Yeah. I mean, no. That’s more than enough.”
“And since you hesitated, it’ll cost you a big smackeroonie right here,” she said and pointed with both index fingers to her wrinkled grimace.
I was disgusted, outraged, appalled. “Fine,” I said, giving in, and without trying to think about it, planted a quick tight-lipped kiss directly on her Pall Mall tasting lips.
“You’re a good kid,” she said and grinned. “And honey, next time try slipping in some tongue, will you? I may be old and shriveled but still need a little something to get me off now and then.”
I cringed, aghast at the thought of frenching Martha. She inspected me with a stern look, scrutinizing my apparent disgust.
“Only busting your chops,” she said in her tar-coated throaty tone. “Now make the donation and get your cute little ass out of here before I jack up the price.” After I practically emptied my whole wallet into the plastic jar, she marched away like a geriatric army captain.
Without wasting a second, I cut out like she told me. My entire body shook as I put the keys in the ignition and started it up for the journey home. God must have had his hands on the wheel because I made it without nodding off and ramming into a telephone pole or an oncoming car.
Once home, I got in a decent nap before heading to the wood shop where Stevie worked. I had hoped we could grab some lunch together and figure out what to do about Amy. I caught him right before his break and we hit up Stanley’s diner for a couple of mushroom burgers. We chose the booth in the far back corner, and after perusing through the table-top jukebox to see if there were any songs worth a quarter, I told him my concerns.
“I thought the same thing,” Stevie said, slouching in the hard-plastic seat of the diner booth. “Already talked to Amy about it.”
“There’s no way we can’t go, is there?”
“Nope, no way.”
“Any ideas?” I asked. “Is there someone we can trust to keep an eye on her?”
“That was my idea,” Stevie said. “She won’t have that either. The more people who know, the more dangerous it gets.”
“Well, I guess they can’t break down every door in Rhode Island to find her,” I said and took a hit off my malted milkshake.
“Look where she’s hiding out,” he said. “Mike’s dad’s? Doesn’t take a brain to figure out she might be there.”
“Probably overstretching our luck the whole time. What else should we do? Move her to a cabin in the woods? What about Maine or New Hampshire?”
“I suggested that too,” Stevie said, appearing even more frustrated than me with our dilemma. “Not happening either. She talked about justice again…justice, justice, justice…and not wanting to run and hide.”
“Wouldn’t do any good if I talked to her again. Would it?”
“You can try,” he said, and with that, there didn’t seem anything more to discuss.
It seemed hopeless. We finished our meals in cold silence, and I dropped him back off at the shop without any fanfare.
In the evening, Four-n-Moore convened at The Corner to talk details of the tour. I tried to be as upbeat as possible, and Stevie was at least not all that negative, only reserved like his old self. Everyone else seemed to be in great spirits. Besides firming up our plans, we celebrated our achievements and speculated on what it’ll be like to be on the road for two weeks with Tyler, Perry and the other rock and roll bad boys of Boston. And it’s all commencing on Sunday, in only five days. Only five days left for us to ready ourselves and get it all together. Only five days left before boarding our own sleeper coach heading south down to Madison Square Garden in NYC to play our first gig of Aerosmith’s East Coast leg. And most importantly, only five days left to figure out how to keep Amy safe until we return. Yes, how to keep her safe? That’s the big question that only Amy can help answer. I need to talk to her asap, but that stubborn chic won’t pick up her walkie talkie. Why bother even buying them?
Tuesday, August 11, 1987
There was no way around it. I had to make a run to the mills as soon it was dark enough. I followed the same protocol and used the same trusted route as always. I hid the motorcycle, gave the secret sign, ascended the ladder and heaved myself through the window opening. I was sure that Stevie would be there like the last time; however, Amy was the only one awaiting me. She practically charged me, and I stumbled into her arms. She held me tight, clinging like a monkey baby, and I savored the closeness.
Contrary to what she insinuated on Sunday, things seemed far from being ok. Normally, she was well groomed, but by the smell of her, she probably hadn’t showered since even before the mishap in the office with Stone and Carney. Our bodies separated after a long squeeze, and I eyed her up and down, smiling. She was terribly disheveled, not at all up to par with her usual aesthetics. Her hair was greasy and unkempt. The makeup caked on her face was old and clumpy. And her outfit, which she probably wore day and night looked soiled and full of grime.
She ambled over to the couch and sat at the far end with her legs up side-saddle. Her right elbow leaned on the couch arm, and she rested her head in her palm. “Luke, you can’t believe how happy I am you came,” she said, almost sounding drunk.
“I’m happy too,” I replied and sat perpendicular to her at the other end of the couch. I rotated my neck towards her when talking. “Last time we saw each other, you rammed a crutch into my gut.”
“You won’t let it go, will you?”
“Fine, I’ll be quiet about it.” I started drumming with my hands on my lap. “I’d visit more often. It’s risky, though, and I don’t want to bother you. Plus, I thought Stevie was keeping you company.”
“What bother? Oh, I get it,” she said, pooh-poohing me. “Stevie keeping me company... Well, that pussy boy was here a lot lately. Drove me bananas. Kept trying to get me to leave this place or go to the police or some idiotic thing like that. Sometimes, he’s too moronic to get it. I told him to come back when he’s ready to support me with my plans.”
“Does he know about last Friday?”
“Nobody else does or needs to.”
“He’s worried about you,” I said. “I’m sure he means well.”
“The wor
ld wasn’t built on good intentions, Luke. You know that.”
“I know. But hey,” I said, “by the looks of you, you must be down in the dumps. And if I may say so, you stink like you’ve been in a dump too.”
“Smell like crotch rot, don’t I? Well, guess I’ve seen better days. This room’s wearing me down, even with my nerves of steel. Something’s got to give.”
“You said that a thousand times already. Best would be to get your fanny out of here or get more help.”
“Don’t start that same bullshit as Stevie. I’ve waited my whole life for this moment. Now, I only need to tie up loose ends.”
“This is much more than tying up loose ends. We’re talking about a Samson and Goliath situation here. And I’m not sure if there’s any way to slay this giant without it getting messy.”
“We’ll slay the giant,” she said, “and justice will prevail. I know it.” She toned it down and changed the focus to me. “But you need to promise me two things, Mr. Rock Star. In a couple days, you’ll be off, on tour with Aerosmith, and I want you to enjoy every second you have in those two weeks. Even if the audience is booing for you to get your asses off stage because nobody wants to see no unknown, loser backup band, I want you to play your guts out and be thankful for everything. Those two weeks might be the closest you ever get to making it big. As for promise number two, right when you get back, we need to strike, hard and fast, like we talked about on Sunday. And that doesn’t mean popping any of those dick-stains in the head. It means putting me and the money out in the open so they’ll fall into our trap, whatever that trap may be.”
“I promise, Amy, on both accounts.” I moved my knees forty-five-degrees to the right and grabbed onto her ankle. “What if you’re gone, though? What if they snatch you away in the black of night? They’ll get the money and bury you alive. These guys are killers and won’t blink an eye to do whatever dastardly deeds are necessary to get what they want. And that might mean torturing you and feeding your bloody corpse to a wood chipper.”
“Think I’m scared of those assholes?” she said and sat upright. “I kicked their asses last Friday. Didn’t I?”
“You want justice, right? If they get you and the money, there goes justice down the drain. Stone will end up the winner, period.”
Amy got up and staggered about the room. She must have known how right I was and from her position in the warehouse, we weren’t even equipped to take on the Boy Scouts.
“Look,” I said. “I promise we’ll find a way for you to get the justice you want, but we need more support. Come on. Be sensible.” A fresh thought suddenly crossed my mind. “What about that cousin of yours? You know, the one who gave you the counterfeit bills? He’s in the FBI or something. Can’t he help?”
“Mickey? He’s a Fed. I thought about that too, and you can forget it. He’s a bigwig in the organization. If I get him mixed up in this craziness, he could lose it all. He’s the one who took the money in the first place. If that ever came out, that’d be the end of his career, and he’d probably get thrown in prison himself. I’m not going to take that chance even if he was willing to help.”
“He doesn’t have to be involved in our plans for Stone,” I said. “You only need protection for a couple of weeks. Ask him to find you a hideaway. No questions asked. He’s bound to set you up.”
“I don’t know, Luke. I can’t. I really can’t.”
“You can. And if you can’t, I can’t either, go on tour. How could I live with myself if we come back and you’re gone for good?”
“But, Luke…”
“You can, Amy. Think justice. If you won’t do it for me, at least do it for your dad. That’s what Serge would want too. Listen up. If I don’t hear from you within two days that Mickey will help, I’m calling it off. I’m serious.”
“Ok, I’ll think about it,” she said, giving in. “Now let’s stop this. I need to focus on something else before I freak. Why don’t you tell me more about the battle? Trying to get anything out of Stevie is like trying to poop when you’re constipated. You push and push and the only thing that comes out is a little hiss and hot air.”
Friday, August 14, 1987
Plans were in motion and we were ready to go. The complete logistics for the tour were in the hands of some management company; we only needed to show up. Amy sent word via Piano Mike that she got in touch with her cousin, and she’d be taken to a safe location for the duration of our absence. She told Mike that she insisted on no questions, and her cousin agreed. To top it off, all was quiet on the Stone and Fango front. I suspect that they’re concocting their own plans for when we’re out of the picture, and we could only hope to foil them by removing Amy from their reach. Whatever the case was, I was inundated with a fresh wave of positivity and decided to pay The Corner one last visit before taking off on Sunday.
“Well, there you are, Luke,” Don said, as I sat down at the bar.
“It’s Friday night, isn’t it?”
“Reckon it is. But I was figuring you’d be readying yourself for your travels. Sunday, it is, ain’t it?
“That’s true, the big day. But we don’t have to organize a thing. We’re being treated in true rock star fashion. They’re even picking us up in a limo and taking us to our bus.”
“Sounds dandy if you like all that fancy stuff.”
“Don’t know if I like it yet. Been waiting a long time to find out.”
“You know,” Don said, “I seen your concert last Saturday, the one you done telling me bout during our last little chit-chat.”
“Really? I thought you said it to be nice. Didn’t know if you’d make it because of work and all.”
“I only says, what I mean.”
“Wish I’d seen you” I said. “It would have made the night even more special.”
“Oh, it was special alright. Little loud for an old geezer like me, but you boys put on a doozy of a show. You deserve all those winnings you got. And those fans of yours, I tell you, they fancied you. They was dancing and hopping like toads in the bayou, singing them words and squawking like a flock of Black-billed Magpies. This one young gal, she sprung on the back of that nasty feller, that singer who done ruin your music.”
“That was Fango, the jerk.”
“That little lady, she had guts by golly, not scared of nothing. And such a lovely girl, long bushy hair and a face like a beauty queen.”
“My favorite kinds of fans: loyal, defending us to the end, and female. I would have loved to have witnessed that, but we had to run before Fango and his posse lynched us.”
“Smart thing. Sometimes it best to stand your ground, and sometimes it best to skedaddle.”
“Skedaddling worked for us,” I said. While we were goggling at each other, I realized that I was still empty handed. “Don, you’re slacking.”
“What you talking about, young Luke?”
“It’s been five minutes since I’m sitting here and don’t even have a beer yet.”
“I think you ought to get yourself some glasses, mister. Look down and a smidgen to your left.”
Sure enough, there was a cold one within my grasp. I was so engulfed in the conversation with Don that I hadn’t even noticed him putting the bottle down on the bar right under my nose. We both had a good laugh before he moved on to a cluster of regulars who needed a fill-up.
Rock Bottom
Monday, August 17, 1987
How should I even begin to explain everything that’s happened over the past couple of days? It was all supposed to be routine and the last easy stretch before reaching the finishing line and getting on the bus to possible stardom. We weren’t scheduled to perform a whole set at the 94 WHJY event. The idea was to play a scattering of tunes here and there between the slew of other special guests. We would give the spectators only a taste of what we’d present on the road. In turn, they’d cheer us on and celebrate Fou
r-n-Moore’s moment in the limelight by throwing us the biggest farewell party of our lives.
The former Mayor of Providence and radio talk show host, Buddy Cianci Jr., joined Carolyn Fox and Rudy Cheeks as masters of ceremony. Frank Santos, the R-rated hypnotist, displayed his onstage comedy antics and John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band, as well as Triton, a local high school hard-rock band, completed the line-up of what was to be one of the biggest bashes of the year. Besides the lucky winners who scored their tickets on the radio, there were many others of prominence from the local arts and entertainment scene. From what I can recall, it had the potential of going down in the annals of Rhode Island history as being the rock and roll gala of the decade.
It started out so grand. The HJY party mobile collected us at our homes and chauffeured us to the venue, JR’s Fastlane. We entered a side door and were guided down a hall to the backstage area. The entire gang was there to greet us. Although not as decadent as the Showroom, the space contained a twenty-foot-long, raised hardwood table to stand at and was accented in dayglo fluorescent lighting against four silhouette painted walls of rock greats.
Servers traversed the room with plates of hors d’oeuvres, and beverages for the taking were submerged in ice-filled tubs. They popped the corks on bottles of Champagne to kick off the event, and Buddy, Carolyn, Rudy, Frank, John and the rest of the cast joined in the celebration. After the Moet & Chandon had lost its sparkle, they started loading us up with other alcoholic beverages. I knew what a mistake it’d be to mix too much, so after drinking one Jack and Coke to be polite, I moved back to my trusty Bud.
We were all in top form, and if our performance onstage was as good as backstage, we’d surely steal the show. It was like a combination of Beatles quick wit and Rolling Stones charisma. Stevie was uncharacteristically talkative and fired off one side-splitting joke after another. Dale, too, was classic and the verbal ping pong between him and Stevie kept everyone more than entertained. Mike and Tommy filled in the laugh gaps, and whereas I was open to jest, I was more grounded, like a Captain who needed to make sure his unit kept it together. None of us seemed nervous, and we were open to anything and everything that would happen that evening.