Johnny and The USed Wonz

by DaNeo Duran

  Here we go, he thought as the Lincoln purred up to him halting as it had last time.

  The first heavy jumped out the passenger seat. ‘Hand it over.’

  Johnny walked smoothly towards the car’s offside back door. ‘I told you last time I’m only talking to Silver.’

  Predictably the heavy rounded the car towards him. Johnny watched him in his peripheral vision counting down the microseconds until impact.

  Oafishly the heavy raised his arms to grab him.

  In one movement Johnny sprang from his right leg. His left hand sliced over his attacker’s arms karate chopping his foe’s trachea. Such a crashing blow would put most people out of action but the heavy tried bearing down on Johnny who, again springing from his right leg left punched with pointed knuckles to the solar plexus. As the heavy folded Johnny, still with the left, cracked his elbow upwards into the oncoming jaw. He let the concrete further debilitate the goon who groaned as consciousness came and left him.

  Dropping his knee hard on the heavy’s chest Johnny yelled, ‘Are you deaf? I only talk to Silver.’

  Inevitably the second heavy leapt from the driver’s seat.

  Without time to get to his feet Johnny predicted a kick. In it came. He deflected it with the heel of his hand. That upset the attacker’s balance. He’d probably go for an awkward but powerful right punch. In it came. Johnny parried it turning his face as next a hopeless left punch whistled by.

  To avoid the now desperate heavy Johnny dived away in a Starsky and Hutch style roll which brought him back to his feet. Would the heavy come for more? If so Johnny would put him down.

  But, stepping backwards the heavy reached behind him. Johnny raised his hands as a gun trained on him.

  The Lincoln’s back door opened and Silver stood up; his hair and suit shining in the morning’s high sun.

  ‘Get in the car you look ridiculous.’

  The second heavy stayed put before realising the guy had been talking to him. He kept the gun on Johnny and backed towards the driver’s door.

  ‘You gonna give me the money or d’you want my friend here to take it from you after he shoots you?’

  Johnny slowly lowered one hand and showed the guy the roll of hundred dollar bills. He stepped passed the second heavy who still pointed the gun and handed it to Silver.

  As the guy flicked through counting, Johnny said, ‘Guess you didn’t want another USed Wonz album.’

  The guy put the money in a briefcase and glared at him. ‘Maybe, but don’t take it personally. Now get outta here kid.’

  Doors slammed and the car moved off before halting as the first heavy banged on its side.

  The moment the car vanished the cool-guy act gave up on Johnny. He’d never had a gun pointed at him before. Shaking he knew he’d sleep the next leg of the tour for sure.

  He carried his jacket and jogged from the multi-storey. On Truman Road he asked the first pedestrian for directions to the library.

  Ten minutes later he had a Yellow Pages and with the assistance of a local librarian three private investigators’ details.

  Starting with the nearest Johnny struck lucky. Preferring to take the stairs he climbed to a fifth floor office above a department store where he discovered the firm had two investigators.

  Zora Hayley invited him into a room that smelt fresh; not of nicotine as he’d expected. From her side of the desk she smiled as Johnny sat down. He reckoned she’d be mid-forties but she looked fit. He couldn’t have guessed her racial makeup; perhaps North African.

  ‘How may I help?’ she asked in a local Midwestern accent.

  ‘I’ve been robbed of almost ten-thousand dollars.’ He watched Zora Hayley purse her lips. ‘I’ll make it back somehow but ideally I’ll be getting it back from the guys that took it.’

  ‘You been to the police?’

  ‘There’s no point.’

  ‘There usually isn’t. Guess the police aren’t much better in England.’

  Johnny smiled and recounted the story including what the bad guys knew and what they didn’t. They hadn’t known his mam had died or the condition of the band’s accounts.

  He told her about Linda’s assistance. ‘Of course I didn’t mention that to the bad guys.’

  At the end Zora Haley said, ‘I’m pleased your group can record another album, but you’re insane son. Why attempt to beat up guys with forty pound weight advantages?’

  ‘A few reasons. Partly to see what they were made of. I learned they were cumbersome and unprofessional but that they carry guns. Until that moment I was hoping not to hand over the money.’

  ‘What did these guys looks like?’

  ‘The main guy in the backseat looked like the actor Yul Bryner – but with silver hair; had that same bad-tempered look about him. The other two wore hats, shades and gloves. I’d say they were in their forties and could have been brothers from what I saw.’

  ‘Accents?’

  ‘Couldn’t tell from the few grunts they made.’

  ‘Okay we’ve got descriptions and a Lawrence address which is forty minutes away in another state. Not much.’

  ‘There’s this.’ Johnny gave her the licence registration of the Lincoln.

  ‘Finally, something concrete,’ she said making a note. ‘Now, you’re a young musician; you got anything left to pay me with?’

  ‘Yeah, the main reason for my insane attack on someone so big was this.’ Johnny passed her a wallet. ‘Got his driver’s licence in it.’

  Johnny allowed himself a moment of smugness as Zora Haley looked it over. ‘This name mean anything to you?’

  ‘Benedict Beatty? Nah, I don’t know any Benedicts.’

  ‘There’s quite a bit here. Date of birth would put him mid-forties. Photo too. Black hair. Can I keep this?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She pushed it to one side with the notes she’d made. ‘Sorry to harp on and all but how would you like to pay for my services?’

  ‘I’ll use the cash that was in his wallet if it’s all the same.’

  This time Zora Haley smiled. ‘You know son, most people in your situation would be deeply depressed.’

  ‘I’m shaken but my main concern is getting the money back to Linda but I’m baffled by these guys’ motivation. We’re not proper rock stars yet. Why pick on us?’

  ‘Maybe I’ll find out for you. Can’t promise though.’

  ‘Anyway if I’m to get the money back off these guys I need to know what I’m up against. If you can answer that I can decided whether to go after them or cook up some other hair-brained money-making scheme.’

  ‘I’ll do my best. You’re moving on today right? Best you take a card. Ring me in forty-eight hours.’

  ‘I’ll ring you from Oklahoma,’ he said standing up. ‘Thank you Mrs Hayley.’

  Shaking his hand she said, ‘It’s Ms but call me Zora.’

  * * *

  Back at the motel Stu watched Dane’s face bursting but not daring to yell at Johnny.

  Dane eventually said, ‘Okay let’s load up. It’s three hours to Joplin we can still make soundcheck.’

  On the bus Stu sat next to Johnny but he leaned against the window as if ready for sleep.

  Getting on last Dane addressed everyone. ‘Good news, we’ve been getting played all over college and AOR stations so the seven-hundred capacity venue’s sold out. We’re doing well guys let’s keep it up.’

  He sat straight down facing the front.

  With him out the way Stu asked Johnny, ‘So how’s your day so far?’

  Johnny shut his eyes. ‘All in good time.’

  ‘You might be saying little with your mouth but you sing with your heart; heard a lot of metaphors and emotion in rehearsal yesterday.’

  Friday 26th April 1974

  The day Greeny had come round there’d been a fight after school. Barry had noticed the crowding kids but had caught the bus home and practiced his guitar.

  Unknown to him Greeny had been at the centre of action,
getting bashed by a fifth year who celebrated his victory afterwards despite Greeny’s apparent resistance.

  Having missed the bus, Greeny walked home via the building society where he drew his savings and bought gloves and gumshield before seeking Barry.

  * * *

  In the seven months that followed, the bass player and drummer left the band Barry had been playing for. Sonja found a better bassist but a worse drummer.

  The older Barry also left claiming he wanted to concentrate on his upcoming CSEs but Sonja said he had a none-too-attractive girlfriend draining his time. The new line up managed a couple of support gigs in the city.

  As the only guitarist in the band Barry redoubled his efforts on the instrument which became an obsession closely matched by martial arts and Miss Wilkinson.

  For her, his fantasies grew ever raunchier. Though his sixteenth birthday still lay two years away he’d visualised the occasion so frequently he actually believed he’d make it happen on the day in question. Having checked he knew his birthday would fall on a Wednesday.

  He’d approach Miss Wilkinson after her Wednesday afterhours guitar class.

  ‘Barry, this is a nice surprise,’ she’d say.

  ‘I’m pleased you think so. Do you know why I’m here?’

  ‘No,’ she’d say with interest.

  ‘I’m sixteen today.’

  She’d brighten telling him congratulations. He’d admire her beauty. She’d be wearing her floaty dress with the broad navy elasticated clip-belt accentuating her slim waist.

  ‘Are you celebrating?’ she’d ask.

  ‘I am. Right now. It’s high time I thanked you properly for being my favourite teacher.’

  ‘Oh,’ she’d say sounding unsure but flick her hair behind her.

  He’d put her at ease by picking up one of the school guitars. ‘These are easier to play now my hands have grown.’

  ‘Have you a song for me?’

  ‘I do and I wrote this especially for you.’

  He’d fingerpick romantic sounding jazz chord progressions. She’d listen wondering when the singing would begin but he’d wait letting each changing chord elevate the mood. Only at their plateau would he sing just the two lines designed to flatter his cherished teacher.

  Even then he’d make her wait. The first word, you, would be stretched weaving through four bars of arpeggios before he’d complete the line, are perfection to my senses. He’d check her response but repeat the line before allowing her to react.

  ‘Barry,’ she’d say once he’d finished.

  He’d return the guitar not listen to whatever else she’d say. Surely she’d complement his playing but object to the lyric.

  Regardless he’d approach with passion and purpose.

  She’d back away but her desk would stop her. ‘Barry–’

  ‘As part of my celebration I’d be honoured if you’d accept the pleasure of my kiss, my embrace and what follows as a token of my appreciation of your kindness and my love of your beauty.’

  His face would be close to hers.

  Despite her protest her lips would remained gently parted. ‘That’s kind but Barry, there are rules about this kind of thing.’

  ‘You told me to break rules Miss.’

  ‘The rules of song writing but … well you were just a little boy.’

  ‘But see me as I am now. I’m taller than you and I have everything necessary to bring you pleasure. You told me to break the rules of song writing and now I write songs. Don’t let rules get in the way of your pleasure Miss.’

  He’d feel her swoon. Her perfume would fill his mind.

  She’d ask, ‘Have you even done this before?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask me after I do this?’

  He’d kiss her she’d melt.

  Afterwards she’d ask again.

  ‘Do you still need an answer?’

  ‘No, you were wonderful.’

  ‘Thank you but Miss, part of my gift to you was my virginity. I wouldn’t have wanted to share that with anyone else.’

  At first she’d look shocked as if considering the consequence of her actions but then she’d smile and hold him as tightly as she had done years earlier.

  * * *

  Of course that would never happen. Not now. Alone in his bedroom Barry’s world had collapsed.

  Earlier that day he’d been visited in a metalwork lesson by Mrs Rankin, his head teacher. He’d left his project in the vice and tools on the bench but collected the Lord Anthony Parka coat his aunt had bought him that Christmas. Forgetting his bag he followed the overweight Mrs Rankin.

  In her office Barry hadn’t thought of any misbehaving that she could have learned of. She motioned him to sit and when she pulled up a chair next to him rather than across the desk he knew it must be something else.

  ‘I’m not here for a telling off am I?’

  ‘Not this time.’

  In the silence that followed he prayed it’d be his dad and not Frank. The previous night Barry had stepped in to separate the pair of them as their drunken father attempted to murder his eldest son. Though not an uncommon practice in their house that episode had been particularly vicious leaving Frank uncharacteristically venomous.

  Frank had been seeing a girl called Holly. Though Frank clearly loved her they’d broken up. After that Barry had seen the fabric of Frank’s patience with Les tearing presumably along with his heart.

  That morning Barry had woken happy. After the previous night’s violence he reckoned that fabric had finally torn in two. Maybe this would force their dad to stop his ways.

  Having left school at sixteen Frank had started work in the Cumberland Infirmary as a porter. He contributed to the housekeeping and spent the rest of his earnings on his motorbike and recently a new girlfriend who’d not been round to the house or even named.

  In Mrs Rankin’s office two possibilities filled Barry’s mind. Mrs Rankin confirmed the one he didn’t want.

  ‘Two hours ago your brother came off his motorbike at speed.’

  Barry nodded.

  ‘He’s breathing but his condition is critical.’

  Barry nodded but a voice in his head said, he won’t make it.

  ’When you’re ready I’ll drive you to the hospital.’

  ‘Can’t Miss Wilkinson take me?’

  Mrs Rankin stuttered a moment then said, ‘Miss Wilkinson’s taking lessons.’

  Barry nodded. ‘Then I’m ready.’

  * * *

  Pulling into the hospital Barry stayed put whilst Mrs Rankin parked the Morris Marina.

  Getting out his fingers traced the exterior door handle whilst he waited a frustrating age for the teacher to heave herself from the driver’s seat.

  Moments later he wanted to push the fat lump up the path to A&E. Couldn’t she just leave him to find his own way?

  Once inside, a nurse behind reception looked puzzled when his head teacher announced their arrival. But—

  ‘I got it,’ a doctor said sweeping in having overheard.

  ‘How is he?’ Mrs Rankin asked.

  He didn’t reply but led them to a quiet room that reminded Barry of Mrs Rankin’s office. There the doctor sat opposite them. He introduced himself and explained in soft tones that Frank hadn’t shown up for work that morning. It seems he’d hit a wet bend and come off his bike. Though he’d slid across the road avoiding oncoming traffic his leg had broken when he’d collided with the wheel of a parked car. Worse though, his head had also suffered an immense impact.

  ‘Nobody else was involved. It wasn’t anyone’s fault,’ the doctor said.

  But it was someone’s fault, Barry thought. If his dad hadn’t been fighting, Frank would have slept better and ridden better.

  The doctor described how Frank had arrived in theatre unconscious but breathing unaided.

  Without drama or words like unfortunately he said, ‘The impact jarred the top of his spine causing a bleed in the brain. I accessed it but we had to stop to ventilate him
when his breathing ceased, and about fifteen minutes ago he died before we could stem the bleed.’

  Barry ignored the annoyingly distracting breath of shock Mrs Rankin took. ‘Did he suffer?’

  The doctor looked between the pair of them but proceeded in the same kind manner. ‘I don’t believe so. He’d have become unconscious straight away and he looked peaceful the whole time.’

  With irritation Barry chanced a look at Mrs Rankin who looked ready to burst into tears.

  ‘Please don’t Miss,’ he said unable to face the prospect of losing the strand of self-control he’d somehow maintained.

  He knew she must have been stunned to see him behaving so matter-of-factly but what would be the point of breaking down now? When Frank died, Barry died too.

  When his dad arrived Mrs Rankin left and headed back to school. Les sat with the same doctor and listened to the same story. Though he didn’t cry he looked like a man destroyed. What remained of Barry seethed hating him without sympathy.

  ‘You’re welcome to see the body,’ the doctor said. ‘But I must advise against it. Most prefer to remember loved ones as they were.’

  Leaving the hospital, man and boy took the bus towards the house that would never again be home.

  They sat in silence until the boy’s words wouldn’t be silenced any longer.

  ‘You killed Frank,’ he blurted. ‘You killed mam and now you’ve killed Frank. Life without mam and Frank is no life at all so do what you like. I don’t care.’

  The boy kept looking forwards but Les reacted. He stood up and pressed the bell; leaving the bus at the next stop. The boy knew he’d head straight for the nearest pub.

  Three stops later the boy left the bus and made for the same front door he’d been seeing for fourteen years.

  The door seemed alien to him now but as if on automatic pilot he unlocked it and went upstairs. He paused looking across the landing at Frank’s room but went straight ahead to the room he’d thought of as his own.

  Nothing looked real. His possessions had no soul and seemed to have turned their back on him. Nothing meant anything and everything meant nothing; or so he thought until his eyes rested on the borrowed electric guitar.

  He wondered about playing it but it didn’t say, play me. It simply seemed to be an ember of hope.

  But right then he didn’t want hope. He sat straight backed on the unwelcoming bed and looked away from the instrument.

  He didn’t know what time he’d arrived back but that didn’t matter now. Now, now meant nothing along with everything else. He sat waiting for nothing. The sun moved round the house. The doorbell rang. He didn’t respond.