"I get you anything?" Jack Daniel's says. "You want a beer?"
"No. No, thanks."
The music has changed to "Your Lying Eyes," as if you needed one more reason to want to get the fuck out of here.
"Hey, my man.'' Reed's hand on Willis's shoulder. He's loosed his hair from its ponytail, and it's hanging down to the shoulders of his black Levi's shirt. That nose of his pointing. "Way to go. See you got that badass Fender Twin with you. And everything's hunky-dory, I trust?"
"I hope," says Willis.
"Hey, you ain't worried about the law out there?" Jack Daniel's says.
"Fuck, I should've told you," says Reed. "Fuckin' sieve.'' Slaps his own cheek. "He's out there every Saturday. You must've shit a brick."
"Yeah, I've had better moments," Willis says.
"Aw, he's just doin' his job, like everybody else," says Jack Daniel's. "I always go out and shoot the shit with him. That makes him happy. Then he goes away. And Til tell you something— what's your name?"
"Jesus, forgetting my manners too," says Reed. "Griff? Doug Willis."
"Doug, nice to know you, man." His handshake is creepily soft and warm. "Anyway, the thing is, I never known him to hassle a vehicle comin' in or out of here. He's just real sympathetic." The drummer and the bass player have drifted over.
"Griff gives him a fruitcake at Christmas," Reed says.
This gets a laugh from Griff.
"Hey, Reed—listen, man," says the bass player. "Can we cut the fuckin' bullshit a minute? What's going on? Is it cool?"
Reed stares at him. "Are you cool?" He turns to the Jack Daniel's guy. "Griff. Here's the deal. Our swingin' gmt-tar man here's got some kind of problem with his amplifier, you know what I'm saying? So maybe we could bring it in your office and try to work on it in there?"
PRESTON FALLS
"Best idea I heard all night," Griff says. "Course, the night is young."
"And I thought we better get some input from El Exigente here." Reed puts a hand on the drummer's shoulder. "You remember those ads? But will it win the approval of El Exigente? And they had that guy? " He raises a finger. "Honly thee fines' beans."
"Why don't you be cool?" the bass player says. "I got money in this too, man."
"Dan," says Reed. Hand on the bass player's shoulder. "Dan, my man. I feel your pain. All I can tell you—so far so good, and we'll know more in a minute." He reaches down and picks up the Twin, not bothering to pretend it's heavy. "Gentlemen, you'll excuse us? We'll just be a few. Meanwhile, why don't you guys make sure you're in tune, right? Oh yeah, so Doug: you're welcome to plug into that badass Mesa/ Boogie with me. Since you're, ah, incapacitated. Fact, why don't you take channel one. That's got all the fuckin' bells and whistles."
"Actually, I should come in too," Willis says. "I need to get, you know, the thing I have to take back."
"Hey, not to worry," Reed says.
"I'm not worried. I just—"
"Good man. So let's not get ahead of ourselves, okay? Soon as we know what's what, we'll fix you right up. Okay, tiger?" Hand on Willis's shoulder again.
"I think I should come," Willis says.
Reed removes the hand, puts the Twin down and looks at him. "Wait a minute. You think? Excuse me?"
"Hey, he ain't gonna screw you," says Griff.
Willis looks at the two of them. Hopeless. "Yeah, okay, fine." Fuckers.
"And now it's fine}'' says Reed. "I don't get it. What is this shit?"
"Ah, Doug's cool." Griff gives Willis's upper arm a squeeze. For some time now, Marty Robbins has been singing "El Paso"; Willis catches the line about the black puff of smoke from the rifle. "Let's just do this, right? Shit, you guys got to go on in a couple minutes. Doug, what do you say? You need a beer?"
Willis wants to jerk his arm away but just shakes his head no: this character's now his defender. Or is it good cop bad cop? Yeah, probably. Jesus, if he ever gets out of this. Reed is still staring at him.
"Hey, you change your mind, just tell one of the gals," Griff says.
I 6 S
One more squeeze, then lets him go. "Come on, amigo," he says to Reed. "Let me take this thing for you." He picks up the Twin and leads Reed and the drummer across the room.
"Fuckin' fries my ass," says the bass player, once Reed's out of earshot. Willis watches the Jack Daniel's guy unlock a door with OFFICE in gold-and-black stick-on italics; the three of them go inside and the door closes.
Mitch reappears, his Strat slung around him, its coiled cord in his hand. "You know it's fuckin' five of?"
"So?" says the bass player.
"So we should be up there."
"Yeah, doin' fuckin' what?" Marty Robbins sings One little kiss and, Felina, goodbye.
"Like we got to get this guy in tune, get him a set list. Minute they come out, man, we got to be ready. Come on," he says to Willis. "Let's get you tuned up."
''Kill that cocksucker one of these days," says the bass player.
Willis brings his guitar case up onto the stage and unpacks. He plugs the Tele into his delay unit and the delay into channel one of Reed's Mesa/Boogie. He ignores shit like Presence and simply sets Bass, Treble and Midrange all at five: the heart of the heart of the heart of the.
"Here, you want a tuner?" says Mitch.
"I thought you guys didn't use 'em."
Mitch shakes his head. "Fuckin' Reed and his bullshit, man. Watch him, all night he'll be cranking and cranking because he thinks he's flat, and me and Danny have to fuckin' keep tuning up to him. Fuckin' pain in the balls. You know what I do? Don't tell Reed this, man. I set the fuckin' tuner so A's like four hundred, four ten? Then I just like hide from him someplace with the fuckin' tuner, I come back and give Reed his notes, and he'll be like, 'Whoa, I'm way sharp to you.' Least we don't end up breaking so many fuckin' strings."
Willis looks at the closed office door, then unplugs from the delay, plugs into the tuner and tries his high E. Sure enough, he's sharp.
"Okay, here's the list, man," Mitch says. "Til get you some paper and a pen so you can copy. It looks like shit when everybody's up there going What're we doin', what're we doin'? Fuckin' hate that shit."
"Great." Willis is still working on his E string; the litde red light goes above the zero, below the zero, above the zero, then locks on. Okay, B string.
PRESTON FALLS
"Shit, we're supposed to be playing right now'' says Mitch. "Danny, you're in tune, right?" 1 was.
"Okay, look, What's-your-name, Doug, I'm going to start copying your set list, man." Willis is working on his D string. "I'll put the keys, and you just, you know, do what you can. It's all real simple shit, 'cause that's what Reed's into."
"Yeah, 'cause that's all he can fuckin' play," says the bass player. "So what are we supposed to start with, again?"
''You got a list, man. Look at your list,''' Mitch says. "Shit, man." He's getting pen and paper out of his case. "Okay, first tune is 'Hard to Handle.' " For an instant Willis thinks he means it's difficult. "You know that thing, right?"
"I've heard it," says Willis. "What key you do it?"
''Should be in B flat," Mitch says. "Reed does it in A. Of course."
"I hate that piece of shit," says the bass player. "And fuckin' Reed singin' it, man. That makes it just about fuckin' perfect."
Willis unplugs from the tuner and plugs back into the delay. He turns the amp off standby and hits an E chord—ungodly loud over "Sundown" on the house system. Somebody in the crowd yells Yeah I "The miracle of tuners," Willis says to Mitch.
"Speak of the devil," says the bass player.
Reed's heading for the stage, sidestepping, slipping between people, greeting and grinning, excusing himself, putting his palms on backs and shoulders. "Gentlemen," he says, looking up at them. He gives two loud sniffs and twitches his big nose like Elizabeth Montgomery in bewitched. "We're happy to report that all is right as right can be"—pulls at his cheek, pulls at his chin—"and, ah, we'll have our multi-talented
percussionist out here momentarily, soon as he gets his shit together"— another sniff—"and very shortly we will be rocking and rolling."
"Oh, fuck me," says Mitch. "I want a fuckin' taste."
"Ah, but we don't want to be starting late," Reed says. "That's unpro/e^nonal." Mitch gives him the finger. "Now. We just need to confer in chambers for about five seconds with our swingin' guit-tar man here. But meanwhile I want you guys to start playing as soon as the old Sparkplug comes out, right? What have we got, 'Hard to Handle,' right? So about like Bay-bay, here Ah am, Ah'm a mane own the scene" — snapping his fingers on the backbeat—"and just start out doing the hook, right? Doot." Snap. "Doot." Snap. "Dooty-oot dooty-oot." Okay?
I 6 7
And just keep that happening, and I'll do like a grand entrance, you know? Might be a couple minutes, so Mitch, you can just, you know, go crazy with it. Show 'em whatcha got." He looks at Willis and does kitchy-coo with his index finger.
Willis follows him across the dance floor to the office, squeezing past a fat girl boogying alone to "Old Time Rock & Roll"—hasn't this played before? Reed knocks Shave and a haircut, and Griff opens the door. The drummer's sitting on the edge of a gray metal desk, banging his heels against it in rhythm, though not in sync with the music. Griff says nothing, though it must be his desk.
"Sparky," says Reed. "Front and center, babe. Your mission, should you choose to accept it—you're okay, right?"
"Whew," says the drummer, looking up. "Oh man."
"What we like to hear," Reed says. "Okay, here's the deal. I want you to go on out there and pull this shit together. Starting out with 'Hard to Handle,' right? About like"—snaps his fingers— ''Bay-bay, here Ah am. You with me?"
"No problem, no problem," says the drummer, closing his eyes and shaking his head.
"You guys just go right into it, you know? You keep it happening, and just about the time you really get in the pocket then I come out and then we do the fucker. And don't forget the stop, right? Vretty little thang let me light yo' candle —right? Griff, will you take him out there, man, make sure he finds the fuckin' stage?"
"Is he gonna make it?"
"Ah, he'll be fine. Hey, Spark. It's star time."
"No problem, man," says the drummer.
Reed looks at Griff and cocks his head; Griff clamps an arm around the drummer's shoulders, helps him down off the desk and over to the door. After a couple of steps. Sparky s walking okay. A sudden din when the door opens, muted again when it closes.
"So," says Reed, walking around to sit behind the desk. "Old Calvin did good. Him and his scary Canadians." He nods at a metal folding chair. "Here, take a load off,"
Willis sits.
"I think the Spark-man kind of overdid," Reed says. "He has to watch that. But shit, let's talk about you, man. Oh, speaking of things." He opens the desk drawer. "Here's the little dealie for Calvin." He scoots a padded envelope across the desk. "You better count it and
PRESTON FALLS
make sure." He takes a staple remover out of the drawer, points its fangs at Willis and closes and opens its jaws. "Here, you need this?"
Willis takes it, commanding his hand not to tremble, extracts the first staple, then slips in a finger, widens the opening, and the rest start popping loose. He tosses the staple remover back onto the desk, reaches into the envelope and takes out a bundle of hundred-dollar bills held together with two double-V paper clips. He slides the paper clips off and counts. Fifty. He pushes the paper clips on again and sticks the money back in the envelope.
"Feel better, tiger?" Reed says.
"Fm probably not cut out for this," says Willis.
"Ah, now don't say that." Reed picks up the staple remover. "Why do you want to put yourself down? Fuckin' grace under pressure, man. I saw you." He makes its jaws close and open three times.
"Yeah, well," says Willis.
"So listen. You take that back to Calvin so you don't get him mad at you, and then when you think of it, next week, whenever, you send me a little check-arootie, okay? Two fifty, did we say? And then I guess you and I are all square." He works the staple remover's jaws while saying "Oh thank Gaaad" out of the side of his mouth, then puts it down and says, "Oh. Except." He opens the desk drawer again, takes out a screw-top aluminum film can and holds it up between thumb and forefinger. But instead of handing it over, he puts it on the desk out of Willis's reach and shakes his head. "I got to tell you, man. My heart went out to you the other night. When we were having our conversation? I was sitting there thinking, Shit, that's no way to live. Just making it month to month, fuckin' credit cards maxed out, pretty soon he's got the kids going off to college— how old's your little girl?" Willis says nothing; Reed shrugs. "Okay, whatever. But take a guy like Danny. Not a world-beater. Well, hell, you know. But he managed to get together a thousand dollars and he's getting back twenty-five hundred. Which is a lot to him."
Willis notices the music's no longer on. An electric guitar, live, plays an E chord. Cheers. Then big notes on the bass.
"Calvin the same way. Forty years old, he looks fuckin' sixty, and this money means he won't have to cut fifty cords of wood this winter. He tell you about his hands?"
"Carpal tunnel?" says Willis. "Yeah, he was telling me."
"You get weary, dealing with fuckin' pathetics."
Couple of whacks on snare drum. Thud of bass drum.
I 6 9
"Sounds like they're about ready," says Willis.
"Yeah, well, they have their instructions." Reed picks up the staple remover. "Tell me something. How often you get up to Preston Falls usually? When you're not on vacation. Couple times a month?"
"Depends," says Willis. "Why?"
Reed makes the staple remover bite twice. "Seems to me, tiger, you're pretty well positioned to get a profitable little sideline happening. Look at you, you're a thing of beauty—chief whatever-the-fuck at a big company? Family man? All it would involve—okay?—you make your little trips up with the family, and every once in a while, three-four-five times a year, you bring an extra piece of luggage. Lot easier than old Calvin having to schlepp all the way up to Richford or some fuckin' place to meet the scary Canucks out in the woods. You make some tax-free bucks, you meet some interesting folks, plus you get to, you know, indulge your little hobby." He taps the top of the film can. "To the fuUest."
"I don't think so," says Willis.
"Hey," says Reed, holding up a hand. "Fine. If you're not comfortable, it may not be the right thing for you." The band starts up, loud, with the "Hard to Handle" riff. "Whoa, sounds fuckin' righteous. We got to get out there, man. Rock and roll. Too much business, you know? Listen, though. Fm just a little worried about one thing."
Willis turns a palm up. Damned if he'll ask.
"See, Fm afraid if you're not careful you could run into a problem with your neighbor there. You know, on the one hand it could be fine. But I think old Calvin was kind of counting on your continuing participation. And he's not a guy that handles disappointment real well—I know this about him. Be the easiest thing in the world for him to go in your house when you're away, plant some shit somewhere and call the tip line. You know what Fm saying? What I would hate to have happen, you come up some night with your family and there's half a dozen cop cars in the yard."
Willis says nothing.
"Hey," says Reed, standing up. "I don't mean to be a downer. Just give it some thought, okay? Meanwhile ..." He picks up the film can, comes around the desk and hands it to Willis.
Willis sticks it in the breast pocket of his denim jacket. "Thanks," he says.
"I better get out there. You comin', tiger? Or you want to hang here
PRESTON FALLS
for a while? Get yourself"—he flutters his fingers in front of his eyes— "prepared."
"Yeah, I think I'U hang," says Willis.
"Take your time. I'll lock the door behind me so you don't get interrupted. Shit, don't lose track of that." He points to the envelope in Willis's la
p. "Or old Calvin really will he disappointed."
The door closes.
Willis feels his heart start to pound: the excitement of being allowed to get high all by himself. He looks up and sees what he can't believe he didn't see before: a calendar with a bleached and busty babe in a stars-and-stripes bikini bottom pouting astride a full-dress Harley with little American flags on the handlebars, her nips the same orangey red as her lipstick. The month is still July.
He takes out the film can, unscrews the top and tries to think what to use: ah, keys. He digs in his pants pocket for his key ring and dips the ignition key into the sparkly white powder. Through the wall he hears a yell go up and Reed howling Bay-bay, here Ah am, Ah'm a mane own the scene. Shit, maybe he better not. He needs to keep his wits about him. Because he's in deep shit here. But on the other hand.
He blocks the left nostril and snorts a little up the right. Blocks the right and a little up the left. Tilts his head back, keeps sniffing.
Oh yeah. The right decision, absolutely.
After a while he opens his eyes and looks at the busty babe. She is incredible. A prostitute who didn't even bother to bleach her black eyebrows. He can feel the Unnamable thickening: down, boy. Okay, heart's going a leet-tle faster, and if it keeps up, that is not cool. But he feels like it's sort of beating better} Jesus, this is the cure for depression, irresolution, inertia and every other fucking thing. Plus he can fucking think for a change.
It takes him all of fifteen seconds to figure out exactly what to do. So fucking simple: it's like when it hit the Buddha, sitting under his tree, that he was a free man. And all the shit fell away, supposedly.
He stands up and sticks the envelope under his jacket, which is snug because of the weight he's put on. He tucks the film can back in the breast pocket, where it bulges out like a titty—but what he can«o^ indulge in right now is some fucking little aria of self-contempt. So he takes it out and carries it in his cupped hand. Better anyway, if you have to ditch it. Though he's not going to have to fucking ditch it—that's just more depressed thinking. When he tries to open the office door the son
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