by Clea Simon
Only the bartender looks the same, and Tara starts with him, pulling up a stool as he makes his way over.
‘Menu?’ He puts down a coaster without asking.
‘Thanks, but no.’ She searches her memory. ‘Nick, right?’
He nods. ‘Good memory. Allagash?’
‘Thanks. You, too.’ She watches as he pulls the draft, a slight smile bringing a dimple to his grizzled cheek.
‘Here you go.’ He places the glass on the counter and waits while she takes a sip. ‘Tara, right?’
‘Tara Winton.’ She nods and after a moment, holds out her hand.
They shake. ‘I remember you,’ he says. ‘Not just from the other night, but back in the day. Didn’t you used to hang out at Oakie’s?’
‘Yeah, I did.’ She looks around. The bar is empty, the bored-looking waitress has already seen to the one table. ‘Hey, can I buy you a drink?’
‘What the hell.’ He grabs a lowball glass. Pours himself a shot. ‘To old times, right?’
She touches her glass to his. Meets his eyes. They’re blue and clear, and suddenly she remembers.
‘You worked at Oakie’s, didn’t you? You were a bar back?’
He nods with a grin. The dimple – those eyes – erasing the grey and the lines. ‘Brian ran me ragged, lugging cases up those stairs. It was Rolling Rock back then, not PBR. God, I hated those green bottles.’
‘The green wall. I remember it.’ She can picture it – the cases stacked in the basement. He’s looking at her puzzled. ‘Brian used to let me use the basement for interviews,’ she explained. She doesn’t mention that he would try to kiss her. Reach for her as she passed. ‘Because the dressing room …’
‘Was a shithole closet, I know.’ His smile grows broader even as he shakes his head. ‘I remember. You wrote for that ’zine, right?’
‘Yeah.’ It’s satisfying to be remembered. It’s also the opening she’s been hoping for. She’s not seriously considering the assignment. Not really. But it couldn’t hurt to feel it out. See who might be available. Only just then an older couple – him with a white beard, her unnaturally dark bob – come in and walk up to the bar.
‘May I help you?’ Nick’s shot glass disappears and then he’s talking microbrews. Hops and witbiers. Like he’d never humped kegs from a cellar that reeked of piss and mold.
It was the smell that got to Tara, the first night she went down there. She had expected dirt and disarray, but not utter filth.
She’d never intended to go down there. Never had any interest. Oakie’s was her club, her ‘third place’ between her walk-up apartment and the crap job she had doing paste-up at the weekly. But even the waitresses avoided those back stairs. ‘Ankle breakers,’ she’d heard one woman – the brunette with the retro beehive – call them. ‘Ankle grabbers,’ muttered her colleague, before she sent the young bar back down to fetch whatever it was she’d needed.
She could’ve joined them, Brian had made that clear. But Tara had never wanted a job at Oakie’s, not in her wildest. ‘Going deaf for tips,’ the brunette used to say. No thanks. Tara would rather chronicle the scene than serve it. Still, Brian had been doing her a kindness in his role as gatekeeper, stray hands notwithstanding.
It was the summer of the Brit pop bands, when scrawny boys were climbing the charts turning out impossibly catchy records, raw hooks over even rougher guitar.
‘They all think they’re Mick Jagger,’ she had said to Scott when another tour was announced.
‘No,’ he had disagreed, ‘Keith.’ But this one was different, he’d said. Better, and he wanted more than a review. ‘Go talk to them. Get some dirt.’
She understood once she heard the record. It was good, with an edge most of the local bands lacked. Not the Whirled Shakers, of course. They could blow these boys away, but up against bands like the Exiles or even the Pugs, well, yeah, she could hear the difference. And so she’d called the label and set it up. No, she didn’t need a backstage pass. It was obvious this band had never played Oakie’s. She just wanted to give them a head’s up. She’d catch them before their set. Fifteen minutes, just for some quotes.
‘I’ll put you on the list,’ the publicist had said. Tara didn’t argue. It would be pointless to explain that everyone knew her by this point. That Brian always waved her in. Besides, it made the publicist feel like she was doing her job.
Nobody had told the band though. Or maybe they had. When Tara had knocked on the door – ‘backstage’ at Oakie’s being a former supply closet to the right of the stage – the singer was high as a kite, his pupils tiny pinpricks in his big grey eyes.
‘Come on in, darling.’ He’d stumbled backward. Waved her in. ‘You’re here for the party?’
‘I’m here for the interview,’ she’d said. ‘I’m Tara Winton, with Underground Sound. Your publicist should have told you.’
‘Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah.’ He wiped his mouth and looked around. That’s when Tara had, too. And seen the stocky one – the drummer? – shooting up on the sofa, his head already lolling to one side as the hit kicked in. The guitarist – Lesley? Lester? – stood just past him, leaning back against the wall as Gina sucked him off. Gina, who was in love with Phil. Another man, hand on his fly, stood waiting.
‘Not here,’ Tara had barked and grabbed the singer’s wrist.
‘OK then.’ He’d followed laughing, as she pulled him back into the club. Only the room was growing crowded. The first band was about to play.
‘Brian.’ Her voice had become rough. Commanding. ‘You have anyplace I can do an interview? Someplace quiet?’
He must have seen something in her face. Or maybe he simply knew – the bands, Gina. ‘The basement,’ he said. ‘It’s kind of a mess, but …’ She’d been thinking of his office, when she’d asked about someplace quiet. Not the dank room down those back stairs. She waited, but he didn’t offer. Only shrugged and so she’d nodded and pulled the singer after her. He still thought she was going to service him, she realized. But when she started peppering him with questions, he caught on quickly enough.
‘Sheffield, yeah.’ He’d even gotten into it, reminiscing. ‘No, that story in the NME got it wrong. It was Dave’s mum who got us the gig.’
They talked through that whole first set. Tara took more notes than she could ever use. Three times the lanky bar back had come down those stairs. She remembered his legs, feet sideways, as he made his way down. His eyes, as he looked over at them, curious. She’d felt better, knowing he was there. Safe.
The singer didn’t care.
‘So what do you say?’ When she’d finally run out of questions. Pocketed her notepad. He’d reached for her.
‘Hey, Nick.’ She’d pulled away without comment and turned, instead, to the bar back. ‘Are the Lowdowns still on?’
‘Just finishing up, Tara,’ he’d said, and then that smile. He knew what was happening.
So did the singer. ‘I guess I should get back up to the boys then.’ He’d pushed himself off the filthy wall, up to his feet. Began to follow her toward the stairs. ‘Only one thing. You know that redhead? The one who dances on the bar?’
‘Neela?’ She’d turned back in surprise.
‘Yeah, yeah, Neela,’ he’d said. ‘You know if she’s here tonight?’
‘Penny for your thoughts?’
Tara looks up into the impossibly blue eyes once again.
‘Or another Allagash perhaps?’
A large hand wraps around Tara’s empty pint, the scars of a hundred small cuts, of decades of work, marking it. Aging it back to the present.
‘Oh, yeah.’ She chuckles. How shocked she had been. How naïve. ‘Yeah, thanks, Nick.’
While he refills her glass, she thinks back on the rest of that night. The set had been great, despite the turmoil backstage. Because of it? This was rock and roll, after all – the Brit boys working the crowd into a frenzy. Had the drummer been erratic? Off the tempo at all? She remembers watching him. Waiting to hear him falter or s
low, but as far as she could recall, he’d been rock solid. It was that singer who had been sloppy, lounging all over the tempo like some louche suitor playing at love. Teasing, with the lyric, with the melody. Leaning back on a beat that caught him every time.
The dichotomy – the discipline, for lack of a better word – had been a revelation, ultimately informing the piece, though she’d been careful to leave out anything that could have cost the band its visa. Scott had been impressed. She pictures his face, round then, eyebrows raised at her grudging, even skeptical tone. ‘You’re getting some distance,’ he had said. ‘Good.’
In addition, she’d learned not to take Gina’s claims of undying love too seriously. She also learned to recognize a smack high, a skill that would prove useful in the years to come.
‘Here you go.’ The fresh pint brings her back to the present, and she looks up at Nick. The same blue eyes, only older now. ‘So what brings you around here?’
‘I can’t stop in after work for a beer?’ She hears the flirt in her voice as she says it. ‘Actually, I was hoping to talk to you.’
Those eyebrows again. ‘Really?’ A rag appears and he wipes the bar to her left, before turning once more to face her. ‘What about?’
He’s seen something. Heard something in her voice – in the switch she made mid-reply. He looks serious, and he’s waiting.
‘I was wondering about Frank Turcotte,’ she says. That wasn’t what she intended, but it is true. ‘About what happened to him.’
‘He died.’ Nick sighs as he looks down at the bar. ‘What else is there to know?’
‘Doesn’t it seem odd to you?’ She leans in, keeping her voice low. The couple at the end of the bar aren’t part of this. Neither, at this moment, is her once and future editor, Scott. ‘I mean, a freak accident?’
‘You think he was drinking again?’ Nick faces her, all humor gone.
‘I don’t know.’ She shakes her head. ‘I know he was in the program. And I heard that he’d been secretive. So maybe that’s all it was, that he was sneaking out to drink or something else …’
‘No.’ Nick cuts her off. ‘He wasn’t doing anything else. He hated all that – that other shit.’ He searches her face. ‘Don’t you remember?’
Tara nods. She does. The piety of the convert. ‘I wonder, though.’ A thought. ‘They probably did an autopsy, right? With an accidental death?’
‘Search me.’ Nick looks down at the other couple. Tara is losing him. ‘You’re the journalist.’
‘I was.’ She reaches out, her fingertips brushing the back of Nick’s hand. ‘Look, Nick, I’m not just looking for gossip. I’m – well, Scott has asked me to do a story on Frank, on what became of the scene.’
It’s a gamble, and she half expects him to walk off. To her surprise, he laughs, and she wonders if he’s been holding his breath.
‘What became of the scene? You’re asking about that now?’ Something like a lilt has crept back into his voice. A tease, which just as quickly leaves. ‘We got old, Tara. That’s what happened.’
‘Yeah, that’s part of it,’ she says. It’s easier to be honest. To just talk. ‘But we didn’t all grow out of it. Get real jobs.’ She catches herself before she confesses – to leaving journalism. To her own conflicts. One thing she learned – focus on the story. Not yourself.
‘I mean you were there when everything was happening. When Neela would get up and dance.’ It works, the combination of flattery and nostalgia, or something like. His grin softens, his expression wistful.
‘Yeah,’ he says, his voice soft. He leans back, nodding, his eyes focusing on the space above Tara’s head. ‘I remember those days. That girl was trouble. She turned into a good mom though. Really turned herself around.’
Tara nods, but she’s back there too. How sudden it had all seemed. The scene at its wildest, then a wedding. A baby. But Nick clearly knows more, and Tara gets that old feeling – there’s a story here, and it’s hers. ‘Maybe she got it out of her system?’
‘Neela?’ He shrugs, focusing those blue eyes on her. ‘Maybe.’ Smiles like he has a secret.
‘Wait.’ Tara picks up on that. Lets a laugh sneak into her voice, jollying him along. Ventures a gambit. ‘Is there some bartender code of ethics or something? Something that says you shouldn’t talk to me?’
‘Nah, we’re good.’ He shakes off the memory, but not the smile. ‘Statute of limitations and all that.’
She hasn’t lost it. He wants to talk. And it has been a while. More than twenty years. That wild girl is a grandmother now. A grandmother and a widow.
‘Would you have time?’ Tara asks, quickly, before the sadness kicks in. Before the window closes. ‘I don’t know, maybe this weekend. Or some night after work. Unless …?’
‘No, it’s fine.’ He turns away. ‘It’s just me now.’
She looks up, confused.
‘Patti got the house, the garage on the Cape, in the divorce.’ That smile has tightened, turned wry. ‘It’s just as well. It was her father’s place, and I didn’t like running it. Dealing with the rest of the family. Here, I’m on my own again.’
‘I know the feeling.’ She raises her left hand. Wiggles her ringless fingers. ‘I mean, I’m busy tonight, but …’ She leaves it open. The story. Those eyes.
‘Is that why you want to go back over all of this?’ Instead of following up, he’s gotten serious. ‘Revisit old times?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Now it’s her turn for a rueful grin. To look down at the bar. ‘Maybe I’m simply curious.’ She looks up. His eyes are still so blue. ‘Curious and bored.’
She emphasizes the last word. Means it for a laugh, but Nick is serious now. He leans in, hands on the bar, and looks into her face.
‘You know, writing about Frank, about the scene, isn’t going to bring him – isn’t going to bring any of it back.’ His voice is low. There’s sadness in it. ‘Nothing will.’
FIVE
‘So how the hell are you?’ Scott ushers her into his place with a one-handed hug. The other holds a bottle of wine, the cork half out. ‘Come into the kitchen,’ he beckons. ‘I need to get a splash of this in the sauce.’
Even without the invitation, Tara would have followed him, lured by the aroma of garlic and herbs. ‘Wow,’ she says, as he leads her through a living room dominated by a huge picture window. ‘What a view.’
‘That view is why I bought the place,’ Scott calls from the kitchen, his voice accompanied by the clattering of pans. ‘OK,’ he says, wiping his hands on a dish towel as he emerges. ‘What are you drinking? I’ve got most of that bottle left.’
‘These are cold.’ She lifts the six she’s brought. Recalls, too late, what he’d said about not drinking.
‘Excellent.’ He takes it, turns back to the kitchen without missing a beat. ‘Let me get us some glasses.’
She hears the clinking of glassware, her host humming a tune off-key, and she turns back to that window. Skyscrapers and the harbor beyond. Her office is somewhere in the other direction, one of the new faceless buildings that make up the new waterfront. The view from her office is nothing like this, though.
‘Doesn’t look like Boston.’ She’s talking half to herself, but Scott has come up behind her, frosted glass in hand.
‘Not from here, does it?’ He hands her a beer, sips at his own beverage – cranberry red, slice of lime – as if he’d never shotgunned a Rolling Rock fresh from the Store 24 cooler. ‘But the town’s changed.’
‘I gather.’ She looks around. ‘You’ve done OK.’
She means it. The cream sofa matches the chairs. The bookshelves of light blond wood. Still, she can hear the note of reproach in her voice.
He must, too. ‘Yeah, I know. City. Who’da thunk it?’ He takes a seat on the sofa, motions for her to do the same. ‘But I paid my dues, Tara. The start-up I left town for? It went belly up. So did the next two. I was toiling away at Portland Business when Jonah called me.’
‘He called you?�
� Tara remembers Jonah Wells. A little man – always in a suit – he ran the Casbah, a onetime warehouse down by the same docks she’s now looking over. That lot – the one with the cranes, she thinks. That was it. ‘And how’d he get into publishing anyway?’
Scott shrugs as he takes another sip, and Tara finds herself wondering if he’s stalling. ‘Well, he wanted someone with local experience. Someone who knew the city “from the ground up”, he said. And, I confess, I’d been putting out feelers. I mean, there’s only so many profiles you can do on tech start-ups you know are going to fail.’
Another sip. ‘As for the magazine, well, he was always a businessman first.’ He laughs softly. ‘He was never in it for the music.’
‘I believe that.’ Tara drinks, looks out the window. The sky is darkening, green and orange slipping into a deeper blue. The silhouette of the cranes has started to disappear. ‘Though I heard he was in it for the musicians.’
Scott snorts. ‘Hey, he’s my boss now.’ His tone is light, but Tara stops. She doesn’t need to elaborate. They both remember the Casbah’s reputation, as rough as the waterfront then was. Bands had to fight for their money, sometimes literally, as the bouncers seemed to enjoy beating on anyone who got in their way. Some bands, anyway.
Even before the end, when it became a pay-to-play joint with bad suburban cover bands ‘selling’ tickets to their friends, it had a rep for the way it treated musicians – and their fans. The Cash Bar, everyone called it, a nickname that even made it into the Underground after a well-known funk star had nearly walked out when he found the Crown Royal specified in his rider had been opened and, presumably, watered down. Everyone had said Jonah had pitched a fit when he heard that the bar manager had given in. Everyone said it was his call that the funk star hadn’t been booked back.
‘So what have you been doing?’ He stretches one arm along the sofa’s back, and Tara blinks. He looks so comfortable. As if he belongs in this tony, high-end space. ‘I mean, I knew you left the paper when I stopped seeing your byline.’