Hang Time

by S. W. Lauden

  Greg pushed the thoughts out of his head once again. He slipped his earplugs in right as Junior led Tina into the first row of seats next to Marco. Dick Dale picked his way through the opening of “Misirlou” as the van lurched forward, heading for the freeway. Greg reached into his backpack and pulled out his copy of Among the Grizzlies. He turned to the chapter called “I Am Tim,” picking up where he’d left off.

  If there’s one person in the world who was most affected by Tim Salem’s death, it’s his little brother Greg—but getting him to talk about it is almost impossible. Even twenty years later, the mere mention of Tim’s name will get you a mixed bag of responses, ranging from complete avoidance and denial to explosive fits of rage, often ending in violence. “There’s a lot of good in Greg, always has been, but his relationship with Tim brought out the worst in him. It’s a pretty typical thing for a young boy to try and impress an older brother, but their relationship always had a competitive edge that made them both act a little crazy,” said Bay Cities Police Chief, Robert Stanley. “It would be easy to say that Greg ultimately won since he survived, but I’m not so sure. And I don’t think Greg is either.”

  If Stanley paints a picture of an unhealthy sibling rivalry, consider this memory from BCC bassist, John “JJ” Jacoby. “We were driving through Arizona on our way to Las Vegas to play a show. It was after lunch in late summer, so it must have been over a hundred degrees out. Greg was doing most of the driving in those days because he was the only one sober enough. Tim was in the passenger seat next to him playing DJ on the stereo. It was all the usual stuff like, you know, Black Flag, Descendents, Wasted Youth, Social Distortion—that kind of thing.

  Greg couldn’t help grinning at JJ’s story. He’d forgotten all about that day in the desert, the way he and his brother fought one moment and acted like nothing had happened the next. Definitely not a healthy relationship, but the two of them were closer than he would be with anybody ever again. Even when they were trying to kill each other.

  “But then Tim pops this cassette in and, at first, we didn’t have any idea what it was. It sounded like some crappy boom-box demos with somebody singing really badly. Well, it turns out it was some of Greg’s new songs nobody was supposed to hear yet, but Tim somehow got a copy. Marco and I only figured out what was going on because Greg went ape shit, swerving down the highway, throwing punches at Tim and trying to pull over all at the same time. They ended up rolling around in the dirt for about ten minutes before they were both too exhausted to fight any more. And then they just got back in the van and we started driving again. They were all covered in blood and dirt, but acted like nothing had happened.”

  My first encounter wasn’t as volatile, but no less telling. We met at a small biker bar called Pete’s in the Angeles National Forest. Greg sat down next to me at the bar where some friends and I were watching Superbike races on TV. It was an informal conversation between two strangers so I wasn’t taking notes, but I think he mentioned his brother Tim in the first five minutes. I had no idea this stranger and I would be in a shootout together a few months later, fending off a sociopathic cult leader named Magnus Ursus. But that’s a story for a different chapter…

  Greg must have been more exhausted than he realized. He set the book down on his chest to close his eyes for a few minutes. The warm sun coming through the window, combined with the monotonous vibrations of the van, knocked him out.

  h

  The kid in the blue hat set the gun down on the amplifier. He raised his hands and walked away. Greg tried to chase after him, to stop him from making this mistake, but the room kept getting longer. And with every step Greg took, the temperature dropped a few degrees. Sharp white icicles formed on the ceiling as he trudged across the cold room. The pointy glass daggers got thicker and longer the deeper in he went, until a few of them began to sprout feet. And then the feet began to swing, hundreds of bodies banging into each other overhead in the enormous meat locker…

  “Wake up! It’s your turn to drive.”

  Greg sat up, almost head butting JJ in the process. Sun still streamed through the windows, but it felt like he’d been asleep for a hundred years. He stretched and yawned, trying to convince his body to catch up with his mind.

  “Where are we?”

  “Town called Yreka. Up near state line. You’ve been out for almost five hours.”

  “Christ. That’s more than I sleep most nights.”

  “The van’s all gassed up for you. Wake me up when we get to Portland.”

  Greg slid out of his row, trading places with JJ. He saw now they were in a gas station parking lot. Marco was fast asleep with a sweatshirt pulled over his head. Chris slouched in the front seat with his headphones turned up so loud that Greg could still hear what song it was. He guessed Junior and Tina must be inside the mini mart, which meant he still had a few minutes.

  Greg climbed out the sliding door and went inside to look for a bathroom and cup of coffee. He found both in quick order, running into Tina on his way back to the van. She seemed much happier than the last time they’d spoken.

  “You snore.”

  “That’s what I hear. Did you get any rest?”

  “No, but I did get a text from Jerry. He stayed out late with some friends last night in the city. He already called SFPD and set up a time to give a statement.”

  “And then back to LA?”

  “I guess. I was so happy to hear from him that I forgot to ask.”

  “Good. That should make tonight a little less stressful for you.”

  “For all of us.”

  Greg led her back to the van where Junior was strapped in. Chris and Marco hadn’t moved an inch. He didn’t look, but assumed JJ was already out like a light. He set his coffee in the drink holder, pulling himself up into the driver’s seat. His copilot gave a thumbs up as he turned the key and headed north through endless miles of trees.

  Greg waited until everybody settled in before tapping Chris on the shoulder. He only took his headphones halfway off.

  “What’s up?”

  “I wanted to check on you. See how you’re doing with everything else going on.”

  “I’m fine. The shows have been amazing and people are being really cool to me. Don’t tell my mom, but this woman actually gave me her phone number last night. It was kind of creepy.”

  “Sounds about right for a first tour. Getting your mind blown is part of the deal. You scared at all?”

  “About the hangings and stuff?” Chris lowered his headphones down around his neck, hitting pause on the player. “Not really. I mean, it’s like it’s happening to somebody else. You know?”

  “Not really. Explain it to me.”

  “It’s like they’re not connected. We play our shows and do our thing, and there are these other people doing these other terrible things, only it’s happening in the same places we are. If that makes any sense.”

  “It does make sense. I’m glad you don’t feel part of it, but keep your eyes open at the club tonight.”

  “No problem.”

  He went to pull his headphones on, but Greg had already reached out to stop him.

  “Did I ever tell you any stories of when my brother and I used to tour together?”

  h

  They arrived in Portland fifteen minutes before sound check that night, which meant no hotel until after the show. The Supernova Theater was much more modern, and better staffed, than The Foggy Bottom. It offered a loading dock in back with a dedicated parking space for the BCC van. A crew of rough-looking stagehands came out to greet them as soon as they opened the trailer door. They carried most of the gear inside without asking for help. That gave Greg and the band time to find the dressing room and get cleaned up before playing a few songs.

  Greg was achy, tired, and ready for a shower, but knew they couldn’t skip the chance to practice. Chris was the only guitar play
er in the band now, so they needed to build up his confidence.

  “You’re doing great, Chris. You know this set better than any of us.”

  “Whatever.”

  Chris turned to face his amp, reading over some notes Greg made for him. JJ sidled up in case Chris had any questions. Greg was about to do the same when Tina walked up to the edge of the stage. There were three uniformed police officers with her. A couple of hefty bouncers loomed a few feet behind them, awaiting orders.

  “There are some people here to see you.”

  He could tell by the slight tremble in her voice that she felt uncomfortable around cops. Not unusual in the music business, but to be expected given the body count this tour racked up. Greg jumped down to the floor, extending his hand to the nearest officer.

  “Greg Salem.”

  She was medium height, medium build, and, judging from the comfortable scowl on her face, medium personality.

  “Officer Tierney. We wanted to have a word with you before the show tonight.”

  “That’d be a nice change of pace. I’m getting used to being questioned into the wee hours of the morning.”

  Officer Tierney’s scowl went from medium to high.

  “Is there something funny to you about these murders?”

  “Is that what you’re calling them here? Seems to change depending which city we’re in.”

  “So, I guess it’s true. You’re an ex-cop who hates cops.”

  Great, he thought. Another one who’s read Tommy’s book. At least she won’t ask me to sign it.

  “No. It’s just been a tough couple of days. Laughter helps. You should try it sometime.”

  He only got a twitching eye in response to his comment.

  “I wanted to walk you through the security measures we’ve put in place around the facility. We’ve got officers stationed near every entrance and exit, and two backstage. We’ll also have one plainclothes officer on the floor during the show, and one in the balcony.”

  “Impressive, but it might be overkill if the SFPD has their man.”

  He could feel Tina’s body tensing beside him. Officer Tierney sensed it, too, her eyes darting between the two of them.

  “We haven’t gotten any recent updates, but it sounds like the investigation is still very active.”

  She turned to leave. Greg stopped her with a question.

  “Isn’t a private security firm supposed to be handling this?”

  He motioned to the mountainous bouncers milling around. Every two-hundred-and-fifty-pound gorilla in an “Event Staff” T-shirt looked the same to Greg now.

  Officer Tierney kept her focus on him.

  “We advised the promoter to cancel this show, but they refused. As did your record label. So we told them Portland PD would be handling security and sending them a bill.”

  “Smart. What did you need from me?”

  “Don’t do anything stupid tonight.”

  “Sort of defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?”

  The trio of police officers wandered off to continue their inspection of the club, leaving Greg alone with Tina. She was on him in an instant.

  “What the hell was that all about?”

  Greg brought his voice down, trying to neutralize her aggravation.

  “I know he’s your friend, but he’s still a suspect. The SFPD are going to take this seriously, whether you like it or not. It’s nothing personal. Have you heard from him again?”

  She took a step back.

  “No, actually. I tried texting and calling, but he hasn’t responded since this morning.”

  “Probably busy sweating it out in an interrogation room. We should concentrate on getting through tonight. Just let the police do their job.”

  The fight in her evaporated, replaced by an air of defeat.

  “Before I forget, I checked us into the hotel. It’s right down the block.”

  She handed him a keycard. Greg felt like he’d won the lottery.

  “Thanks. I’m going to run down and grab a shower.”

  “Stage time is ten tonight, but the label execs will be in the dressing room to meet you around nine-thirty. Don’t be late.”

  h

  The crowd in Portland was more subdued than in San Francisco, which made the band work harder to win them over. It wasn’t easy at first with Chris flubbing a few guitar lines, but they hit their stride somewhere in the middle of the set. Greg tried to be more animated, covering every corner of the stage and playing to the label execs as much as the fans. They even did another encore, although Greg managed to remain standing this time when the show finally ended. If this truly was the last stop of the tour, Greg would be satisfied.

  He followed Marco, JJ, and Chris to the dressing room. Tina waited for them there with a few of the label heads. They were smiling from ear-to-ear, congratulating the band on an amazing show. Greg took it all in, ever aware of the police officer lurking in the corner of the room.

  The backstage party broke up about twenty minutes later. Everybody from Dead March went over to the private party across town. The sweat-soaked band was supposed to gather their gear and stop by the hotel to get cleaned up before joining them. Greg said several rounds of goodbyes, doing his best to deal with the endless flood of praise. Another ten minutes passed before the band was finally alone. Even the police officer stepped out into the hallway to give them some privacy.

  Greg fell back into a wooden chair, raising a bottle of water.

  “Great job, Chris. The crowd loved you tonight.”

  The boy teased his bangs, attempting to cover his eyes. His words were barely more than a mumble.

  “I screwed up, like a lot.”

  Marco walked over to give Chris a pat on the back.

  “It’s punk rock, little bro. People are paying to see us screw up.”

  Things went quiet for a moment as the adrenaline slowly drained from their bloodstreams. Nobody spoke for a few minutes, but all of them were studying the ceiling out of habit; looking for the body that might finally take a night off. Marco broke the silence.

  “Let’s get our shit loaded into the trailer. I want to get over to the hotel and check in on Gabriella before we go to the party.”

  JJ stood up, walking over to the dressing room door.

  “You guys have a standing phone date every night? Things are getting serious. Looks like I might be losing my roommate soon.”

  “Whatever, dude. Let’s get this over with.”

  Greg felt a pang of guilt for not calling Kristen that often, but decided it was normal. Marco was still in that puppy-dog phase when the entire universe revolved around a particular girl. Greg and Kristen, on the other hand, had already crossed over into old married couple territory. It happened a little too fast for Greg’s taste, but he wasn’t sure what to do about it—especially so far from home. The thought filled him with dread as he stood up to get back to work.

  Once everything was packed tight and locked up, they decided to leave the van at the club overnight. There was no point trying to park it in the hotel structure if it was only a block away. Greg tilted his head to let the light rain fall on his face. It felt good to be outside stretching his legs after a few days of being cooped up in the van and in clubs. He did the math in his head as they trudged down the slick sidewalk. They’d only played three shows, but driven over a thousand miles. The next venue was in Seattle the following night, another three-hour drive wrapping up the coastal leg of the tour. From there they had a day off scheduled to accommodate for the long haul to Boise. And then onto Salt Lake City, Albuquerque, Las Vegas, Phoenix, and San Diego. None of that would matter unless they got through tonight without finding another body. So far, so good.

  They made plans to meet in the lobby again in thirty minutes. Marco and JJ had rooms on the fourth floor. Junior and Chris were on the se
venth floor. Greg was all alone on the ninth. He stepped out of the elevator, followed the winding hallway and soon found himself at his door. The “Do Not Disturb” sign was right where he’d left it. He slid his key in, pushing the door open. The twinkling nighttime view of Portland spread out before him through the window.

  Greg tossed his things onto the desk to strip his sticky clothes off. Showers were a luxury on tour, one he wasn’t ashamed to take advantage of—even twice in one day. He rummaged through his suitcase to find his last clean underwear and an Off! T-shirt, setting them out on the bed. He picked up his phone, convincing himself to call Kristen, but decided it could wait.

  There was a text message from an 805 area code number he didn’t recognize: “It’s Romero, from SB. I’ve got some information about the other night. Call me.”

  Greg hit the “Call Back” button, disappointed to get voicemail. His message was short and to the point. He set the phone down on the desk along with his other things and went into the bathroom to rinse off. This Dead March party seemed less important to him as the minutes ticked by. He slid the curtain open, nearly shattering the mirror behind him as he crashed backward into it. Jerry dangled from a rope in the ceiling, his lifeless body gently swaying in the circulating air from the fan. Greg didn’t have to read the sign around his neck to know what it said.

  October 1998—9:00 p.m.

  It was past closing time, but Tim still had a lone customer wandering the store. He was a skinny teenage kid with bubbling acne on both cheeks and a spray of bumps for good measure across his chin. His brand new Never Mind the Bollocks T-shirt still bore the creases from the packaging it came in, and the chain and padlock around his neck were a little too shiny. The kid thumbed through the new arrivals, deciding between two of the latest pop punk releases. Tim normally loved that new punk smell, but he was jonesing hard and needed to fix. He thought he deserved it after the afternoon he’d had.