Hang Time

by S. W. Lauden

  this is a genuine rare bird book

  A Rare Bird Book | Rare Bird Books

  453 South Spring Street, Suite 302

  Los Angeles, CA 90013

  rarebirdbooks.com

  Copyright © 2018 by S. W. Lauden

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, including but not limited to print, audio, and electronic. For more information, address: A Rare Bird Book | Rare Bird Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 453 South Spring Street, Suite 302,

  Los Angeles, CA 90013.

  This is a work of fiction, all of the characters and events in this story are imagined.

  Set in Minion Pro

  epub isbn: 9781947856080

  Book Design by Robert Schlofferman

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

  Names: Lauden, S. W., author.

  Title: Hang time : a Greg Salem mystery / S. W. Lauden

  Series: Greg Salem Mystery

  Description: First Trade Paperback Original Edition | A Genuine Rare Bird Book | New York, NY; Los Angeles, CA: Rare Bird Books, 2018.

  Identifiers: ISBN 9781945572715

  Subjects: LCSH Musicians—Fiction. | Rock music—Fiction. | Los Angeles (Calif.)—Fiction. | Mystery and detective stories. | Suspense fiction. | BISAC FICTION / Mystery & Detective / General.

  Classification: LCC PS3612.A9323 G75 2018 | DDC 813.6—dc23

  Also by S. W. Lauden

  Bad Citizen Corporation

  Grizzly Season

  Crosswise

  Crossed Bones

  Contents

  October 1998—11:00 p.m.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  October 1998—10:00 p.m.

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  October 1998—9:00 p.m.

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  October 1998—8:00 p.m.

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Acknowledgments

  October 1998—11:00 p.m.

  Tim threw the rope over the exposed ceiling beam. He’d been practicing the move in his mind all day, but it still took a few tries. A sense of relief washed over him as he looped it over again, pulling the loose end down the other side to form a noose. His mind was surprisingly sharp considering the farewell shot of heroin coursing through his veins.

  He’d learned about tying knots from his father, at their cabin in the mountains. The family spent whole summers up there when he and his younger brother, Greg, were still kids. Just three men hunting, fishing, and living off the land. Tears filled his eyes as he thought about how much simpler life had been then. Before they discovered punk rock, drugs, and disappointment in their teenage years. Tim wondered if his father or brother would recognize the knot when they found his body.

  Tim took a step back to have a last look around the record store. A familiar yellow glow came through the windows from the streetlights out front. The towering racks and bursting bins always looked like an industrial landscape to him, silhouetted as they were in the crowded space. Only he knew exactly where every rare single and limited edition remastered CD was tucked away. This was the business he’d built with his own two hands, dropping out of high school to devote himself to music.

  He’d worked endless hours every day since, toiling alone in the tiny backroom office—teaching himself how to read foreign catalogs, understand basic accounting, and occasionally make payroll. It was a labor of love that reaped its meager rewards in the frantic smiles of his devoted teenage customers; the same kids who used to come see his band, Bad Citizen Corporation, play at the local all-ages venues.

  That was before the band he loved ruined his life. There had been plenty of evidence that things were changing. It was there in pointless power struggles at the rehearsal studio, where he and Greg fought over things as trivial as set lists. Or in the tour van when they’d come to blows over which fast-food restaurant to drive through, or which song to listen to on the stereo.

  And it was there at their childhood home where they could no longer visit their father at the same time. Tim could see how it hurt the old man, but there was nothing he or anybody else could do about it. He understood now how he’d retreated into ritualistic self-destruction that required something as blunt as a needle for relief. He’d chosen to shut himself down instead of facing the pain of his band—his life—falling apart. Greg, on the other hand, embraced anger; clutching tight to his ego as he waded fists-first into fight after pointless fight. There simply wasn’t enough oxygen to contain them together in their father’s house, the band, or, as Tim very recently realized, the entire world.

  Tim saw it all much more clearly now, framed through the noose swinging in front of his face. The finality of it all brought a sort of clarity to his mind, a sad certainty that every one of those signs lined the one-way street leading him here. There was a terrible inevitability to it, a tired junkie cliché that almost made him laugh.

  He climbed up onto the counter, slipping the noose around his neck. The rope felt itchy against his skin, a brief reminder of the petty annoyances he was saying goodbye to forever. He slid the knot down until it was tight, inching his Converse to the edge. It was no longer a question of if, but when.

  Tim barely finished whispering “Goodbye” before leaping out into the permanent darkness. He listened to the rope creak against the ceiling beam overhead, mind already disconnected from his arched back and jerking legs. It came as a shock when, in his final moments, he still had more questions than answers. One in particular was louder than all the rest—Will Greg ever understand why I had to do this for him?

  Chapter 1

  Greg Salem shattered the backstage mirror with his clenched fist. Tiny shards of blood-splattered glass rained down on his Converse and danced across the sticky concrete floor. Satisfying jolts of pain shot up his arm as he lowered the mangled hand to his side. A hundred little reflections judged him now, the mocking eyes of a spider in a jagged web of destruction.

  He hated everything about the fraud staring back at him, starting with his ridiculous burgundy hair. His best friend Junior did the dye job earlier that day in an effort to cover up the rogue greys. There was nothing she could do about the tiny lines clinging to his eyes like claw marks, or the longer ones etched into his forehead. They were almost more noticeable these days than the slowly fading tattoos poking up from under the collar of his Black Flag T-shirt.

  Greg should have been walking on air, but his self-doubt had an undeniable gravity. He couldn’t imagine why anybody would pay to watch a forty-one-year-old man up on stage, even though the show had sold out in minutes. And now here they were, crammed into Eddie’s L Bar to see the first stop of Bad Citizen Corporation’s official reunion.

  His stomach was all knots as he listened to the crowd through the flimsy door. They got louder as they sucked down drinks, screaming to be heard over the barrage of old-school hardcore blaring from the speakers. Junior’s son, Chris, created the playlist; selecting favorites from the steady diet of bands Greg fed him in preparation for their upcoming tour. At thirteen Chris was the youngest member of the band by almost three decades, and the only one of them tha
t couldn’t legally be in the club.

  Greg’s gaze drifted to the busted mirror. He listened as 98 Mute’s “Another Boring Day” gave way to “Richard Hung Himself” by D.I. The walls of the tiny storage closet dressing room were covered in fading memories of the countless bands that had played there over the years. Layers of cracked and peeling stickers were interwoven with intricate, hand-drawn logos making the space feel even more suffocating than it already was. There was barely enough room for a couple of chairs and a few guitar cases. The air choked with the smell of stale beer and dank sweat.

  The rest of the band was out wandering the crowd, giving Greg his space. These days the lineup included the original rhythm section of JJ on bass and Marco on drums, along with a new guitarist named Jerry that their label suggested to balance out Chris. Everybody at Dead March Records loved the idea of a thirteen-year-old guitarist for publicity, but not so much when show time rolled around.

  Greg paced in circles, stalking his thoughts. He had some serious doubts about this BCC reunion. The money was pretty good and definitely helped him sleep a little easier with a family to support, but playing music had never felt like such a job. He barely saw Kristen any more between the private investigation work he picked up and the band’s sporadic practices. And when he was home, she’d shove their son into his arms before sneaking off for a shower or nap. The days of coming home to find her sunbathing topless in the backyard were gone, and so were their long nights between the sheets. She’d become a different woman now; a person Greg feared he’d never truly know.

  He dropped down into a rickety chair, his knee pumping nervously as he wiped blood from his hand with a damp bar towel. Playing music was better than bartending—or being a cop for that matter—but it didn’t calm his nerves. “Lights Out” by Angry Samoans came on and Greg thought he heard a fight start somewhere inside of Eddie’s. A burst of adrenaline flooded his veins; he leapt up and singed his hair on an exposed light bulb dangling low from the rafters overhead. It swayed back and forth, throwing the small space into a riot of shadow and light.

  Greg reached for one of the electric guitars leaning against the wall, giving it a vicious strum. Two strings snapped as the pick sawed downward with all the grace of a steak knife through a beer can. He dropped the instrument to the ground and went back over to the mirror. Only a few minutes left before they hit the stage, but Greg was ready to crawl out of his skin. He needed something to take the edge off. I worked at this bar for almost a year and I never craved a drink this bad.

  Falling off the wagon wasn’t an option. Not ever, but especially not tonight in front of his hometown crowd. These were the people this was really all about; his closest bros from the local surf scene with their flannel shirts and sleeve tattoos. It was the same crew that had been there when the band first got together. Back when Greg was still in high school and his older brother, Tim, was playing guitar and calling the shots. More than twenty years later, Greg was still playing the same old songs in front of the same old crowd. It hardly seemed worth all the effort these days.

  The door swung open. Junior stood there in a plaid Catholic schoolgirl skirt that clung to her curves. Knee-high leather boots and a tattered BCC T-shirt completed the ensemble. Her hair was jet black and parted down the middle, long ponytails snaking down her neck. Greg liked that Junior still dressed up for the shows she booked. It reminded him of the girl he fell for in high school, not the single mom in sweats he sometimes ran into at the grocery store these days.

  She parted ruby-red lips to scream at Greg.

  “Showtime, old man!”

  He watched the rest of the band climb up onto the stage in the background. The crowd cheered as they assumed their positions, Marco banging out a quick fill on the snare drum while Chris tuned up. Greg tried to squeeze by Junior, but she stuck out an arm.

  “Somebody broke the mirror back here. Seems like a pretty pathetic rock star maneuver.”

  “I was mad about the green M&Ms. Nice shirt by the way.”

  She looked down at her chest, feigning surprise at the Bad Citizen Corporation logo.

  “This old thing? I got it as a souvenir when I slept with the singer.”

  “You must have made an impression.”

  “I’m glad one of us did.”

  Junior smiled, holding up a pinky finger as Greg brushed by. He pushed his way through a gaggle of Hollywood wannabes, bounding up the stairs to the stage. Chris flashed a shit-eating grin while JJ nodded. Jerry remained facing his amp, ignoring Greg as he passed by.

  Marco counted off the first song. Greg focused on his shirtless drummer as the band unleashed a wall of sound. He noticed for the first time that Marco had gotten a little soft around the middle now that he was eating regularly.

  Greg waited for the intro to unwind before leaping at the mic stand. A furious flood of lyrics flowed from between gritted teeth as he searched the sea of over-dressed strangers in front of him. The band was near the end of their second song when Greg looked over at Chris. The kid’s legs were planted in a wide stance, eyes fixed on the low-slung guitar before him. Long bangs flopped across his face, lips pinched into a painful grimace. Greg wasn’t much older than him when he started playing in this band.

  Cheering erupted when they took a break after the sixth song, but it was a little too polite for Greg’s tastes. The fact that people could stand in front with their arms folded told him something was wrong. He couldn’t remember the last show they played where there weren’t at least a few people slamming. But tonight it felt more like a recital, and it only fueled his anger.

  He went to the edge of the stage, crouching down to shout.

  “Have you pussies seen any of my friends? They look more like me than you.”

  He was pointing at them now, jabbing his finger only inches from stunned faces in the front row. There was some screaming from the back of the room and a few people laughed, but nobody moved.

  “What the hell are you doing here tonight anyway? You get lost on your way to the farmers’ market?”

  A few people in front took a step back, but it wasn’t nearly the reaction Greg wanted. He was ready to jump down there with them when Chris tore into the opening riff of the next song. Greg had no choice but to sing as they pounded out five more in quick succession, each one a little faster than the last. And when they stopped, it was more of the same.

  “You guys slumming it in North Bay tonight?”

  A few people clapped while others booed.

  “That’s more like it…”

  Greg spun around to face Marco. He was clutching the microphone so tightly in his fist that blood oozed from the cuts again. Thin red strings ran down his fingers and along his forearm.

  “Let’s get this show over with so we can send these fuckers home.”

  Marco lifted his sticks, clicking off the next set. It was every song on side one of the first BCC album, in order. A blistering ten minutes of pure, youthful rage that left the band in tatters when the show finally ended. Greg knew it wasn’t the best gig they’d ever played, but it wasn’t bad for a bunch of old men, a hired gun, and a thirteen-year-old kid.

  Greg went straight down the steps, making a beeline for the storage closet. Somebody caught his arm. He was still buzzing from the show and anxious for a little alone time, so he didn’t appreciate the sudden intrusion. His first instinct was to rear back and take a swing, which he might have done if it wasn’t Junior. He knew that was a fight he probably wouldn’t win.

  “Who the hell are all of these people? I didn’t recognize anybody.”

  “Of course not. Your record label bought most of the tickets before any of the locals had a chance. Everybody here is connected to the music business in some way. Or a tastemaker.”

  That last word looked like it left a sour taste in Junior’s mouth. It made Greg feel queasy, too.

  “Why the hell didn’
t you tell me?”

  “Because I would have missed out on all of your witty stage banter. Come on, there are some people over at the bar who want to meet you.”

  Junior walked off before he could finish complaining. She led him through the crowd, winding their way over to the bar. Normally JJ would be back there mixing drinks, but he’d taken the night off to play the show. Greg spent so little time at Eddie’s these days that he didn’t even recognize the new bartender.

  Two middle-aged guys stood from their barstools when Greg walked over. Their young arm candy didn’t even bother looking up from their phones. The taller of the two men had a light English accent that could have been a put on. He was rock-star thin, with a shag haircut straight out of some eighties Rod Stewart music video. It went well with his flared jeans and slim leather coat.

  “I’m Peter James. Impressive set.”

  Greg shook his hand while looking around for Junior. The producer went on talking, trying to get his attention.

  “Dead March sent us down here to have a look at your show. They thought Mick and I might be a good fit to produce your album.”

  He slapped his partner on the shoulder, which seemed to wake him up.

  “Sorry. Pulled an all-nighter with a new hip-hop act. Barely keeping it together right now. Nice to meet you.”

  Greg smiled dismissively before turning back to Peter.

  “That’s weird. Nobody told me you were coming.”

  “We weren’t totally sure we could make it, to be honest. So they probably couldn’t be bothered. Have you got any studios in mind for where you’d like to record?”

  “Haven’t given it much thought. We’re mostly concentrating on the tour right now. It starts in a few days.”

  Greg gave the room another quick scan, desperate to see some familiar faces. Peter’s arms were folded when he turned back. He seemed to be looking right through Greg. Probably considering his aura, or some other hippie crap Greg didn’t believe in.

  “Interesting…”

  Greg was plotting his escape when Junior reappeared. She had two young women with her, both of them short, blonde, and dressed for an outdoor summer festival. Greg wondered if Eddie would even recognize his own bar if he walked in right then. Thankfully, the old man was officially retired these days and didn’t bother with the shows any more.