by Martha Reed
“I can pay cash.”
“That’s it!” Ken slapped his hands together with a crack like a gunshot. “Rent it to her, Leslie. Jane’s got my vote. It’s either her or one of those goddamn hipsters running around gentrifying the neighborhood.” Wrinkles channeled his mouth as he scowled. “Can’t stand those pretentious little pricks with their goddamned pumpkin spice lattes and fucking avocado toast.”
Jane braced herself to stand her ground. “Are the utilities included?”
“Yes.” Leslie smiled winsomely as she ticked items off of her fingertips. “That includes water, sewer, garbage and the electric. Electricity can get steep running the AC and the dehumidifier during the season. I’ve found it’s best to just budget it into the rent. And the apartment comes furnished with everything you see except for your own personal linens.”
“Trust me, Jane,” Ken rumbled. “You won’t find anything better in The Bywater at that price.”
“I know it.” Jane glanced out of the wavy glass panes as a cluster of ravens flapped through the black trees. “And I wanted to stay on this side of the canal. It’s closer to work. I just need to watch my budget, you know. Keep it real.”
“Tell you what.” Leslie rested her hands on her hips. “You help me out a bit in the garden come spring, with the tilling, weeding and such and we’ll call it seven-fifty.” She cut her eyes at her husband. “It’s December first, Ken. I want a tenant. Makes no sense leaving the place standing empty over fifty bucks.”
“Hey, you’re the boss.” He raised his hands in surrender. “She’s already got my vote.”
“Just so you know, Jane,” Leslie wagged her finger, “we’re not renovating anything. No fresh paint, no new rugs or curtains. You take the place as it is, lock, stock, and barrel and it’s yours.”
Jane studied the shoebox space. Four hundred square feet tops, and not a foot more.
“I’ll take it.” My new home.
Chapter Three
Blindly feeling for the light switch, Jane gave it a flick. There was a solid click, but the apartment stayed dark. She arbitrarily flicked the switch again and then again, using more force and getting the same result. Dammit! No electricity.
Dipshit! Jane gave herself a mental kick. In her eagerness to move in she had forgotten to ask the Pascoes where the breaker box was or if they even had a separate one for the apartment. Now I’ll need to wake someone up and ask for help. Leaving the door hanging open she trudged through Leslie’s raised garden beds. In the dead of winter, they looked like unmarked graves.
The Big House’s screened in back porch was filled with dancing silvery shadows. I can sleep without the AC on, but there’s no way I’ll fall asleep without the sound of the ceiling fan drowning out the daytime street noise. Jane had tried that approach using earplugs twice before. Sensory deprivation had led her straight into a vomiting migraine nightmare.
She heard an aluminum lawn chair’s squeaky protest and a soft silhouette rose from behind the rusting screen. Shuffling forward, Ken unlatched the door, holding it open with one huge paw, his gravelly voice deliberately kept low.
“Morning, Jane. Saw you come in. Sun’s up. Take a detour this morning?”
Pausing at the base of the steps, she matched his whisper. “Stopped by The Deuce for a beer or two. Helps me sleep.”
“Or maybe three?” He chuckled. “Good for you.”
“Ken? The electricity’s out at my place. Where’s the breaker box?”
“I have no idea. Leslie covers that kind of thing.” Pushing the screened door fully open, he grasped the railing and stiffly descended the steps. “I’m useless when it comes to housekeeping. Don’t even know where to look.” Crossing the courtyard, he opened the iron side gate and stepped out into the street. “Leslie has insomnia. When she finally drops off I try to leave her be. We’ll go ask Ryan.” He studied a clapboard house facing Plessy Street. “I see a light in his kitchen. I know he’s up.”
“Who’s Ryan?” Jane followed Ken along the crumbling sidewalk.
“Ryan Embry, the boy next door. Well, Ryan’s a man, now. Family friend. Known him all his life. Works for the electric company. He’ll know what to do.”
They skirted a boxy Delta Power van parked on a concrete pad, part of a paved driveway leading to a standalone one-car garage. Jane followed Ken up the three short steps onto a wooden front porch protected by a narrow overhang. The Embry’s bungalow was roughly one-third of the size of the Big House that loomed across the street, built in the traditional NOLA shotgun style with a single door and three long shuttered windows. The simple unadorned house was painted a pale blue that almost looked gray in the early morning light. Jane felt such a pang of false recognition that she felt sucker punched. It almost looks like back home.
Ken gently rapped on the door using his knuckle.
There was a rustle, the deadbolt was thrown, and an older woman peered through the screen. She was wearing a yellow chenille bathrobe with matching terrycloth slippers. Her thin, faded brown hair was tightly rolled in pink foam curlers. Her nose was slightly too big for her face. She had a prominent forehead and piercing blue eyes.
“Morning, Cheryl.” Ken whispered. “Sorry to trouble you. We’ve got a problem at the house. Is Ryan home?”
“He’s in the garage checking his gear.” Clutching her robe tightly at her neck, she pushed the door open with her free hand. “Come in. I’ll fetch him.”
“This is Jane, our new tenant.”
“How d’you do?” She bobbed. “I apologize for looking like this. I only just got home.” Turning, she shuffled down the single hallway. “Have a seat. I’ll just be a minute.”
The living room was spotlessly clean with a white painted brick fireplace and a gleaming heart pine floor. Pot metal fleur-de-lis crucifixes hung prominently in the center of every wall. The room held a teak mid-century sofa and two matching armchairs sealed in clear plastic slipcovers. Jane was surprised to see that the ceiling rafters had been painted a vibrant turquoise hue.
“Interesting color choice,” she noted.
Ken looked up. “Blue ceiling keeps the haunts away.”
“Haunts?”
“Ghosts, spooks, evil spirits. Or so I’m told.”
“Good to know. Cheryl works nights like I do?”
“She does now.” Ken laced his hands together. “Used to work as a call center manager, but they moved the damn thing to China or Mumbai or some fucking place and downsized her out of a job. Too young to retire, so now she cleans office buildings at night when no one’s there.”
“At least it’s quiet.”
“That is one way of looking at it,” Ken admitted.
“Here he is.” Cheryl returned.
A man roughly Jane’s own age stood behind Cheryl, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He was whipcord slim, about six-two, with neatly parted sandy blonde hair, blue eyes, and hipster mutton chop sideburns and a whiskery soul patch under his lower lip. Jane raised her chin. A friend of hers back home was addicted to watching classic action movies on DVD. Ryan looks just like Steve McQueen in Bullitt. He was dressed in a short-sleeved navy Delta Power work shirt with an employee photo ID clipped to his breast pocket. His muscular left bicep sported a tattooed eagle clutching a cluster of arrows and a Confederate flag in its talons above the script Never Forget.
“Good to see you man. Zup?” Studying Jane, he blinked. “Who’s this, Ken? Bring me a present?”
“Behave.” Ken growled. “This is Jane, our new tenant. She’s having problems with the electric. Leslie’s still asleep. Thought maybe you could come take a look?”
“I’ll get my kit.” Without a hint of embarrassment, Ryan stooped and gave his mother a quick peck on her cheek. “Have a good day, Chere Mere. See you later.”
“Don’t be late tonight, son.” She gazed at him adoringly. “I’m making jambalaya.”
“With double shrimp?”
“Of course with double shrimp.” She playfully slappe
d his cheek. “Just the way you like it.”
“Yum!” Ken rubbed his hands together. “My favorite. What time’s supper?”
“Go on, you rascal.” Cheryl laughed happily. “I know Leslie feeds you fine.”
She slowly shut the door as they trooped down the stoop and followed Ryan to the service van. Opening the unlocked rear cargo door, he reached in for a canvas tote bag filled with clanking tools, slinging it easily over his shoulder. Pausing, he reached in again for a chrome halogen flashlight.
“Might need this. As I recall, there weren’t a lot of windows in that place.”
Ken took the lead as they re-crossed Plessy Street. Jane deliberately slowed her gait so that she didn’t mow him down. As she did, Ryan slid in neatly by her side, matching his lanky stride to hers.
“Noticed you moving in the other day,” he offered. “Place’s been dark for awhile. Been in NOLA long?”
Jane’s gut twisted into a knot of uncertainty as she struggled to squash the anxious, uneasy feeling. Slow your fucking roll, girlfriend. He’s just asking you a normal question. Don’t get paranoid. This is what new neighbors do. She swallowed thickly. “About four months. Decided it was time to settle in. I like NOLA. Think I’m gonna stay.”
“Hope you do.” Smiling, he caught her eye. “Cute accent. Where you from?”
This time she remembered to keep it safely generic. “East Coast.” Ryan’s eyes were pure cornflower blue. The color was mesmerizing. Jane knew she was staring, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away. She felt the heat coming off of his skin in waves. Jesus. This guy radiates nervous energy.
The courtyard’s broken bricks slowed Ken down. Stepping through Leslie’s garden, Ryan took the lead, pushing the apartment’s door wide open. “Let’s see what’s going on here.” Snapping the flashlight on, he raised it to his shoulder. “Breaker box is in the pantry. Wired it myself.”
“Oh!” Ken scoffed sarcastically. “She hid it in the pantry. That makes perfect sense. I’ll try to remember that for next time.”
“Let’s hope there is no next time. Jane? Slide in here close. You should see this.”
Flicking a wire handle, Ryan opened the gray steel box, shining the flashlight’s beam up and down a double row of neat black circuit breakers.
“Here’s your problem.” He thumbed one switch back and forth repeatedly. The ceiling fan began to whirr and the dehumidifier kicked back on. He smiled, obviously delighted. “The problem’s not the breakers, it’s the wiring. Miz Pascoe didn’t want me rewiring the whole place, too expensive, so I had to keep the amps low.”
Slipping across the main room on cat feet, he turned off the dehumidifier. “Miz Pascoe should’ve mentioned you can’t run both units at the same time, since they’re on the same circuit. Trips the breaker.” He lightly rapped the flashlight against his palm. “Do you even own a flashlight? For next time, just in case?”
“Didn’t know I needed one,” Jane said quickly. “I’ll pick one up at the Dollar Store.”
“Here.” He spun the chrome tube like a gunslinger. “Keep this one.”
“You sure?” She turned the halogen flashlight over in her hands uncertainly. It looked expensive.
“Consider it a housewarming present. Welcome to the neighborhood. We’ve got plenty more back at the warehouse.” He slyly winked. “Delta buys ‘em by the case.”
“Thank you, my boy. We’re all set?” Ken yawned, rubbing his hand over his face. “Don’t forget. Tomorrow is Leslie’s surprise party for her big 5-0. Top secret. Hush-hush. Don’t tell a soul. You’re both invited. Eight o’clock, sharp.”
Ryan thoughtfully scratched his soul patch. “I heard something about that from my mom. Wasn’t sure I’d be welcome.”
“Why the hell not?” Ken sputtered.
“Will Gigi be there?”
“I hope so! She helped me plan the thing.”
“You know we had trouble, Ken, the last time we got together.”
“Ryan. Let bygones be bygones.” Ken sounded exasperated. “It’s supposed to be Leslie’s birthday celebration.”
“Can I bring a friend? My boy Tyler would crack his nut sack for a chance to meet you.”
“Fine.” Ken waggled his index finger. “But the spotlight tomorrow night is on Leslie, not me. Your mother is taking her out for an early bird supper at Brennan’s. We’ll get things set up while they’re gone.” He turned. “Jane? Be sure to swing by before you leave for work.”
“I will.” Shit. Jane scrambled to come up with an affordable idea for a present. Wine is twelve bucks that I don’t have. Flowers? She relaxed. I’ll swing by the farmers market and pick up something bright. Sunflowers. Big ass sunflowers. They’ll stay fresh if I keep them in the fridge.
Ken studied her carefully. “You will stop by, Jane? Promise?”
“Yes, I promise.”
“Great. See you both then.”
Ryan watched Ken leave before he snorted. “New tenant, huh? You sure stepped in that one. You do know who he is, right?”
“Who, who is?” Crissakes! I sound like an owl. “Ken? My landlord?”
“He’s more than that. Remember The WarBirds band? Kenny Pascoe played monster bass. The finger-popping king? Wrote “Love Power”?”
Jane’s brain lit up like a Christmas tree as she finally made the connection. Every heavy metal band on the planet had covered “Love Power” to prove their musical chops. Rolling Stone magazine had called the song one of the top five stadium rock anthems of all time. “Love Power” had been adopted by every major league sports team and by the LGBTQ community as their cry of solidarity and defiance.
Turning, she watched Ken climb the porch steps. “He’s Kenny Pascoe? I thought he was dead.”
“Nope, just got old. There he goes. Last of the dinosaurs, a real T-Rex,” Ryan stated. “He’s either a rock god, a legend, or a dream. Take your pick.”
Chapter Four
Pumping her arms, Jane double-timed the concrete staircase before sidestepping the corridor to stretch her laterals. Sliding through the office doorway, she scanned the console monitors before reaching for her water bottle, ignoring the siren’s call of the emergency family-sized Milky Way Midnight candy bar she had stashed in her backpack. This is how we do it, girlfriend. Ignore the temptation. She felt her resolve wavering. Quick! Focus on something else.
Ryan said that Ken Pascoe was an original WarBirds band member. Spinning the chair around with her fingertips, Jane sat. Reaching for the wireless mouse, she googled Wikipedia, typed in “WarBirds band,” and read:
The WarBirds were an American four-man garage band from Prairie Village, Kansas. In 1974, while attending Shawnee Mission East High School, electric guitar front man Scottie Brennan founded the band with drummer Alan “Mick” “Madman” Kiesling, Gary “Lemonhead” Meyer on electric keyboard and harmonica and Kenny Pascoe covering electric jazz bass guitar. On their sole 45 single, “Love Power” Marianne Tanner sang female vocal. However, she was not credited on the record.
Background Information
In an interview with Rolling Stone magazine in 1982, Mick Kiesling stated that he named the band The WarBirds as a nod to the Romulan military spaceships from the original Star Trek television series.
History
The WarBirds enjoyed modest local college campus touring success until they released their rock anthem “Love Power” as a 45 single in April of 1981.
According to Gary Meyer, “That summer, Kenny saw this tubular show called MTV one night on cable. He called me up. He was freaking out, totally amped. I thought he was high. I kept asking him, Dude? What’s your damage? He kept shouting that we needed to shoot a ‘music video’ and get in on this new MTV gig or we’d be working in the shoe department at Kmart for the rest of our lives. Hell, I didn’t even know what MTV or a ‘music video’ was, but Marianne got all Dexter on us. She borrowed her brother’s video camera and his tripod, and we shot our video outside the War Museum in Penn Valley Park. The res
t, as they say, is history.”
The music video for “Love Power” debuted on MTV over Labor Day weekend in September of 1981. According to Gary Meyer, “Marianne kept pushing for it, saying that the timing was critical. She said we needed to get the music video done in time to catch the kids before they went back to school to ride the buzz. I remember telling her to chill-ax. Turns out she was right.”
“Love Power” immediately shot to the number one spot on Casey Kasem’s American Top 40 countdown radio program. The song held the Billboard Hot 100 top-ten singles number one sales spot for a record-breaking (at the time) twenty-three weeks, a record only broken later by Michael Jackson’s single “Thriller” in January of 1984.
Discography
“Love Power” was certified platinum by the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA) for sales over one million physical units. It has since sold over 110 million copies in digital downloads.
After their skyrocketing initial success, The WarBirds signed with the Crystal Prism/Sultana Records label in February of 1982. They entered the Dancing Blue Crow studio to record their debut double album tentatively titled Blood Sport with additional songs written by Kenny Pascoe.
Jane looked up. She thought she heard a soft scratching sound. The sound wasn’t repeated. She returned to the screen.
In an interview with Billboard magazine in 1982, guitarist Scottie Brennan said, “Kenny writes our songs. The guy is genius-o-rama in the mix. Truly. Used to blow me away. He locks himself in a room and comes out with these rad lyrics written longhand on a legal pad. I kid you not. Dude can’t sing a note to save his life which is why we never mic him up, but you can’t beat Kenny for producing that solid wall of sound. It’s kind of psycho. Sometimes, he can’t even remember writing the lyrics like he’s a space cadet lost in the ozone, a real Major Tom, but nobody does it better. Kenny Pascoe is the real deal.”
The street side security door buzzed like a pissed off yellow jacket. Jane leapt up. Oops! Eleven-ten. As usual, Christophe was running late. Pressing the quick keys to delete the web browser’s search history, she let him in.