by Clea Simon
I nodded again as she took off, and pulled a blank piece of paper over. Francesca, 8-8:30. The StoreAlls, 8:45-9:15. “Tight schedule.” I kept copying, knowing from experience that by the third or fourth band, everything would be running at least a half hour late.
“She does know what she’s doing, you know.” Francesca spoke so softly I barely heard her. She’d hardly touched her slice.
“Violet?”
A small laugh. “Tess, actually. She and I have gotten close and, well, she just has a lot to deal with right now.” I nodded, and kept copying. “She’s cleansing her system.”
I didn’t mean to roll my eyes. I really didn’t. I mean, I live in this crazy progressive city because I love it. But Francesca must have seen something because she snatched the paper out from under my marker.
“Your negative attitude doesn’t help.” Her voice was hard. “And we really don’t need your lack of faith.” I was about to snap back. Pretty girls are too used to being catered to. Then I remembered. She’d lost her cat. We’d all lost a friend. I swallowed my words, and before either of us could start to explain, a yell from across the room interrupted us.
“Theda, can you take the mike for a minute?” I left the table to Francesca, who’d turned away. Probably hiding tears.
“Hey, grab that box, will you?” From then on, the night was chaos.
“Did anyone see Neil? I need him pronto!”
“Theda! The mike?”
And so I stood on stage saying “one, two, one, two,” carried instruments, and shuttled messages, and before I knew it, the small club was crowded. The empty pizza boxes had disappeared, and the few leftover slices were being eyed by Ralph, who’d shown up with Lee.
“Early night for you boys.” I made my way over, trying to hide the anger welling up again.
“Early bird gets the worm.” Ralph grabbed the last meat slice, the sausage already curled and congealed. “Wanna split it?” He gestured to Lee, who shook his head and walked off.
“He’s still not talking to me, is he?” I took a stool next to Ralph. He kept eating. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten,” I said. He turned my way, a string of cheese dripping from his mouth. “You still owe me, Ralph. Big time. You were spreading lies about me and trying to steal my beat.” He swallowed. “Ralph, I saw the paper today. The Onramps were my story, a natural for ‘Clubland.’” He opened his mouth, but I cut him off. “That was before I was fired, Ralph. I know when Sunday goes to press.”
For the first time ever in my memory, Ralph put down an unfinished slice.
“The sausage gone off?” He shook his head. Of course, that wouldn’t have fazed him. “So what is it, Ralph? You told me you’d help me find out what Lee knows. That’s the least you can do.”
He sat there, forlorn, looking at the slice. “I can’t, Theda.”
“Can’t, Ralph? Or won’t?” He looked so sad I could have felt sorry for him. But I’d done that already once. “This is more than my job on the line here.”
He nodded. “I do know one thing. From that story that ran today?” He looked up at me. I nodded; I’d seen it. “Lee says that the vet had another man. Someone from her past was back in the picture.”
An old boyfriend. What had Rachel told Piers that night? That she had some old business to take care of? Maybe she was trying to get rid of a jealous ex. “Who?” I grabbed his forearm. “You’ve got to find out who, Ralph.” This was the biggest break I’d had. “Ralph!” But he’d started hiccuping.
“’Scuse me, Theda. Gotta run.” He swung off the stool and started pushing through the crowd, propelled by either guilt or pepperoni.
I thought about waiting for him. The big guy had left too many questions unanswered, but I had no idea how long he’d be or in what shape he’d return. Besides, people were lining up to enter the music room. He’d be back there soon enough. I’d never checked on Tess. But Violet’s words came back to me. She’d be fine. I needed to trust her. Plus, Violet and all my other friends had worked hard to pull this night together. Truth was, I didn’t want to miss any of it.
Francesca was on stage by the time I got in. Most folks were still mulling around, talking, so I pushed up front. Francesca might look like Tess, but she didn’t have her stage presence, not yet. Instead of singing out—or even into the mike—she was looking down, her heavy hair covering her face. The tune she was picking out on her acoustic was pretty, however. Melancholy and somehow familiar. Nothing I could quite place. Probably a cover, expecting a newcomer to conjure up an original song last minute like this was too much.
Then it hit me. This was her song, the one she’d been working on last Tuesday at Violet’s. “Shiva’s Lament.” I found myself humming along as she came up on the bridge again, when suddenly the song changed. From intricate finger picking, she’d broken into violent strumming. The effect was startling and the couple behind me stopped talking. All around us, people stopped talking and leaned in to hear Francesca sing.
Leaving me….tearing me apart…
I couldn’t make out anymore.
“Wow, shades of Alanis.” A young guy, his goatee still thin, laughed a little nervously, and suddenly the song was over. Francesca started the next one before the applause had died down, and this one was a cover. Something Irish, maybe the Pogues, having to do with death and loss. Several women were crowding the stage now, nodding as she sang, almost keening, about sadness. Did they know it was for her cat? I smiled, a little ashamed of myself. Didn’t I know that mourning knows no limits? I’d lost a cat I loved. I knew how much it hurt. Good for Francesca for being able to channel what were obviously very strong feelings.
As the next band set up, I went to get a beer. Ralph’s bellow broke through the muffled roar of the crowd and I started for his end of the bar to continue my interrogation. Just in time, I saw him talking to Lee. The younger writer was almost obscured behind Ralph’s bulk. Well, maybe that could wait.
“How’s it going?” Bill had come up behind me and his arms around me made me jump.
“Fantastic!” I turned for a kiss. “Have you been back here? Did you catch any of Francesca’s set?”
He shook his head. “I’ve been busy back in the office. She did well?”
“Really impressive. She’s got something, but she’s got to learn to look at the audience. The world only needs one Cat Power.”
He laughed. Three months ago, he wouldn’t have gotten the reference. “Yeah, I saw her go by, but she seemed pretty wrought up. Thought I’d let her catch her breath.”
“Pity.” I could see no sign of her. “She’d be getting some positive feedback if she did.”
Just then the next band kicked in. I recognized the guitarist; she’d served as Vi’s roadie for a while but she obviously had chops of her own. With a cool, jumpy rhythm—part reggae, part ska—she and the bassist got bodies moving. Up front, I saw heads bobbing and after the drummer threw in a fast fill a second guitar kicked in. I stretched up on my toes, dying to see more.
“Go!” Bill pushed me forward with a hand on my back. “I’ll be here.”
It didn’t take any more. I was up front and dancing.
“Pretty good, huh?” Vi was next to me, shouting to be heard. “Bassist is a friend of Mona’s. I introduced them.”
I tried to recall who Mona was again and gave up, succumbing to the music. The guitarist and bassist had their heads together now, singing harmonies into the same mike, her clear voice soaring above his gruff growl. Back again to the syncopated rhythm, and then she broke off for a solo. Old school, all high notes wailing like we were in a stadium. It could have been pretentious, too metal for the room. But the crowd went wild, fists pumping, cheering her on.
Violet and I yelled along, and when the guitarist fell backward, nearly upsetting her drummer’s hi-hat everyone cheered. The next tune started up just as hard. This was magic. Post-punk metal, an ironic take on the guitar gods of the past.
I caught myself as I reached for a pad. I wasn�
�t writing about this. I might never write about music again. All around me, sweaty bodies moved. The music continued, but for me the spell had broken.
“You okay?” Violet must have seen my face.
I forced a smile and mimed drinking a beer.
“No, thanks.”
I didn’t really want one either, but I needed to step away before she saw my disappointment, before my mood infected the night. Just my luck, the crowd parted right beside Ralph.
“Hey!” He squeezed sideways, letting me in. “What are you drinking?”
“Blue Moon.” If he was buying. “But, Ralph—”
“Great, huh?” He interrupted, nodding toward the stage. The guitar and bass were playing in unison, necks and notes reaching for the stratosphere. I recognized the tune as something vintage, so did the crowd. The unison line brought a cheer and without a pause the drums and bass kicked in to the next tune. “AC/DC.”
“Motorhead,” I corrected him. Why was he the staff writer again?
“Oh, that’s right. I should tell Lee.” I turned in surprise. “Well, Theda, I mean, if you’re not doing the column anymore.”
“Thanks in part to you, Ralph.” I was stretching the truth, but I was furious. “So what gives? Is Lee your new best friend or something?”
“Come on, it’s not like that.” I glared at him. “You’re always talking about the community. He’s just getting started. He needs a hand.”
That wasn’t what he needed. “I’m in the community, too, Ralph. You still owe me.” I pushed off from the bar, ignoring both the fresh bottle and the plea in his eyes. “And a beer is not going to cover it.”
The band sounded great, but I didn’t want to hear anymore and headed, instead, for the back room. At least I could tell Francesca how much I’d liked her set. But when I got there, the room was empty. Either she’d passed me in the crowd or she’d snuck out for some air. I poked through the storage area and out the back. The night had turned frigid, and any intrepid smokers were probably huddled by the front door. But the air did me good. I was blowing things out of proportion. Writing about music was a great gig, and once my name was cleared I could fight to get it back. But I’d loved the music long before I started critiquing it, and I could learn to simply enjoy it once again.
That was an easy resolution to keep with this band, and soon I was back in the groove with everyone else. The room had gotten even more packed, too full for me to work my way up front, so I crept up along the side, the press of bodies making me sweat from the effort. Someone, probably Neil, had rigged a follow spot and in true rock star style it now highlighted that guitarist as she leapt in the air, each descent timed with a crashing chord. Then it was the drummer’s turn, beads of sweat flying off him like sparks as he moved from one surface to another, all the while keeping the big bass drum going at a wildfire tempo. Subtle, it wasn’t, but the crowd loved it and the last loud bang brought a cheer like I’d never heard in this small room.
Would Francesca go on again? That would be a hard band for any acoustic act to follow, and I worried for a moment about the younger performer. Maybe Tess had shown up. She played solo, too, on a vintage Epiphone that she’d found in a pawn shop. But she knew how to mike it, and, more important, how to work a crowd. I craned my neck, but the room was too full.
I did hear a crash as that hi-hat finally went over and looked up to see a laughing Piers on stage. Either he was helping to break down or the Onramps were up next. I couldn’t recall what the set list had said, but someone handed up a new bass drum and it became clear that Piers was setting up. The bands must be sharing equipment, which would explain how the turnover was going so well. I checked my watch. Not even twenty minutes off schedule yet. But, no, Piers jumped down. He was simply helping. A drum and guitar duo came on, kicking into a wiry number that sounded like it had blues in its blood. Only there was something wrong with the setup. The drummer was singing, I could see her face straining, but all we heard was the scratch and scramble of guitar racing against the beat. Neil pushed through the crowd and I saw him crouch down behind her. The guitar kept up the rhythm, a furious strum, while Neil worked and then a voice broke in.
Whatcha whatcha you gonna do?
Who’s gonna gonna gonna pay for you?
Whoops of joy greeted the return of the vocals, and as much from team spirit as anything, I cheered along. It wasn’t poetry, but with the beat it worked, and I watched the band feed on the energy, the guitarist bounding around like his hightops were superballs. By the third tune, he was dripping, his brown hair plastered black against his face, and the room was steaming. Up against the wall, I had a good place, safe from most of the jabbing elbows and stomping feet, but I regretted not taking that beer from Ralph. The bar was all the way across the room. Maybe between bands.
Something cool and wet touched my neck and I jumped. Bill was beside me, laughing, cold Blue Moon in hand. “Forgive me, babe. Couldn’t resist.”
I grimaced, but took the beer. I’d rather he were playful than angry and the cold brew did taste good. “You read my mind!” I yelled back at him. The pair on stage launched into another song and then another. If they got any more energetic, that guitarist was going to take off. Bill was grinning and nodding toward the stage. The guitarist had indeed gotten airborne. But he’d landed on the drum set, sending the cymbals and floor tom flying. Someone in the crowd started clapping and soon we were all yelling along. If this was their finale, it was dramatic. Might be hard on the equipment in the long run, though.
“Hey, have you seen Tess?” I turned back, but Bill was gone. I could see him above the crowd heading toward the sound board, so I turned back to the stage. As long as I didn’t have to pee, I could stay here all night.
Except that Piers’ band, the Allston Onramps, just weren’t that exciting. Maybe it was that after the last two bands, their nuevo garage rock sounded tired. Maybe it was that new keyboardist. Maybe I was simply worn out, but I found my mind wandering. My case crowded out the power chords, and I found myself going over everythingPilchard had said. Would there prove to have been another man in Rachel’s life? Or a disgruntled staffer whose alibi wouldn’t hold? I took a long swig of beer and tried to clear my head. I liked Piers, I should be listening to his band. What had Ralph written about them? I’d seen something about “roots” and “basics” before I’d turned the page in anger, but that was all generic. I could have done better.
One tune later, I shrugged. I wasn’t going to be writing about them. I wouldn’t have the chance, so why stress about it? I looked at the crowd and wondered, could anyone here be a killer? Most of these people were here for the music, or to support their friends. But some were here for the cause itself, to help raise funds for Violet’s shelter. The latest crisis had been kicked off by that contaminated food and now, with Rachel gone, it seemed unlikely that we’d ever find out where that had come from or how it turned up at Violet’s. Was that sack of dry food intentionally poisoned or had some accident, a spill or drip, made her cats so sick that night? I stared at the stage without seeing it, my mind on that sunny afternoon I’d spent going through Violet’s papers. Before Rachel’s death, and my arrest, I’d been on the trail of something. Pilchard had dismissed the connection, as had Bunny and Cal, but I just kept coming back to it. Violet’s cats had been sickened by bad food, and I thought it likely that the food, intentionally poisoned or not, had come from Rachel’s shelter. Sickness and stabbing, cats and women. There was no obvious link, but both were crimes, and both hit awfully close to home. Something was tying all this together. Something had to be.
Someone jostled me and I turned from the stage, just enough to see Francesca off to the side. She stared up at Piers, the stage light making her pale face glow. That was nothing special, every straight woman in the place was probably staring like that. But then he stopped singing and smiled, and she turned away, as if self conscious. Had he seen her? Had that smile been for her? I wished I could see her face but the light now shon
e on her curtain of dark hair. And as I moved forward, I was jostled again and suddenly wet.
“Sorry, sorry.” It was Ralph, and he’d started dabbing at me.
“Stop it, Ralph.” I was in no mood to put up with him. I grabbed the cocktail napkin out of his hand and turned back to the stage. But from this angle, I could see farther back, behind the stack that had sheltered Francesca. Lee Wellner was waiting there, almost entirely hidden by the amps. And he wasn’t watching the band as they started up a big rousing closer. He was staring at Francesca.
I craned to see more of his face. He seemed so intent, so fixated. But as if he sensed my interest, he ducked back into the shadow. Piers’ band had everyone jumping as I dived into the crowd. Lee had put me off with accusations before, but if he knew something about Rachel, about an ex-boyfriend or anything else, I had to find out. I pushed between two dancers and was slammed in the ribs for my trouble.
“Heads up!” A sweaty face, a body bare to the waist, whipped by me. Piers’ band had incited an old-fashioned mosh pit, turning Bill’s jazz club into a rock madhouse. If I wasn’t careful, someone would start stage diving soon.
“Watch it!” Big hands grabbed my arm and pulled me forward and I stumbled, just in time to see a Converse hightop fly by my ear. This was a night! But thanks to that stranger’s strong grip, I was through. I pushed my hair back from my face and tried to get my bearings. Where was Lee? I needed to know what he knew. Most important, I needed to find out who his source was. He was going to tell me, or I’d throw him into the pit, glasses and all.
Then I saw him, toward the end of the bar. But the Onramps had finally finished, and everyone who had been dancing was now looking for a drink. I was using my hands by then, finding ways through the sweating bodies. Soon there were just two stools between me and Lee, two stools and about a dozen thirsty patrons.
“Lee!” I called. He didn’t hear, the room was still loud and Neil had the between-band playlist turned up. I saw the writer’s dark head bobbing, like he was deep in conversation with someone. “Lee!” Nothing. “Lee Wellner! Over here!” That caught his ear. He turned around, a look of shock behind those thick lenses. That’s when I saw who he’d been talking with. Hunched over the bar behind him was Violet.