by S. W. Lauden
Chapter Five
Greg’s curls were a patchwork of amber, black, and red as he waited in the large storage closet next to the stage that night. Dressing rooms aren’t very punk rock, he thought, cracking the door to scan the hot and sweaty room. Truth was that he never felt completely at ease wandering the crowd before a show either. It was always hard to know exactly where to be.
Ricky and his band tore through a set of original material for thirty minutes in front of the sold out crowd. Greg could see the two kids he had met out in the parking lot pushed up against the stage, shoulder to shoulder with the middle aged punks they would one day become. It was still fifteen minutes before Greg was scheduled to take the stage. Yet he was already filled with the same angry energy he’d felt the very first time he’d played in front of an audience. Part of him hoped that feeling would never go away, but it was getting harder and harder to summon.
He closed the door and turned to check his phone. There were no messages so he texted Junior a single word: Nervous. There was no response. He knew she was probably busy pouring drinks behind the bar or checking IDs at the front door.
He slumped into a chair and tried to calm his mind. Next thing he knew the door jerked open and Junior was yelling at him to go on. She stepped aside as he brushed past her, bounding up onto the stage.
Ricky started in on the chords to the first song before Greg even reached the mic. The band kicked in on cue and Greg was screaming his head off. He had no time to worry about whether or not he could remember the lyrics. The song was over almost as quickly as it had started. He was still catching his breath when the drummer counted in the next song. Wooden sticks ticking off like the countdown to a bomb blast.
The room was too narrow for any kind of real slam pit, but little shoving matches were breaking out as the die-hard BCC fans swelled and surged. The band plowed through three songs back-to-back before they finally let the crowd cheer. It was a deafening roar that slowly died down to a hum while Ricky fumbled to replace a broken guitar string. It was taking him a little longer than it should have so Greg was forced to improvise some awkward stage banter.
“What’s up, Hell Bar?”
The crowd responded with more shouting and shoving. Fans were yelling out song titles that Greg hadn’t heard in years.
“If we do that one you’ll have to come up here and sing it.”
Greg laughed into the mic and turned to see if Ricky was ready yet. He felt like the seconds were passing by in slow motion. The song requests eventually died down, replaced by an increasingly aggressive buzz. Greg could feel the impatient crowd turning ugly when a single voice broke through the din.
“Play a fucking song, pig!”
Greg took a step to the edge of the stage and squinted to see through the blinding lights.
A few people in the crowd started booing. Then he heard it again, that same voice screaming above it all.
“What are you gonna do, pig? Shoot me too?”
There was a swell of motion out in the crowd. Greg could see a group of older guys punching and kicking somebody who was already down on the ground. He went to leap from the stage. Ricky grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him back toward the drums.
“Dude! No way. You don’t need anymore trouble right now.”
Junior rushed from the side of the stage as Greg struggled to get out of Ricky’s grip. She quickly motioned for Ricky to start playing another song. The band kicked in as she led Greg from the stage and along the far wall of the bar. He resisted at first, but eventually gave in to Junior’s pleading looks. People were streaming out of both doors as the melee grew in size and intensity. The two of them eventually reached the side door and were soon outside of Eddie’s.
“We can’t just bail!”
“You’ve got enough shit going on without getting arrested for a stupid bar fight.”
“What about Ricky?”
“He can handle himself.”
She was right, but he couldn’t shake the urge to rush back inside. Even though he knew it would only be a few minutes until The Bay Cities Police arrived and shut the place down. The gig was over either way.
Three men wearing ski masks and waving guns came through the front door right at that moment. The trio pushed their way through the crowd, fanning out like a crack military squadron. The first gunman stopped and leveled a handgun at the bartender. The second went to cover the side door. The third headed straight for the stage where Ricky and the band were still bashing away.
Junior took Greg by the hand and led him up the block. She pushed him into the passenger seat of her car. They were speeding down the boulevard, already several blocks away, when two shots rang out inside of Eddie’s.
›
Inside Greg’s apartment, they waited anxiously for one of their phones to buzz. He was sprawled out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. She sat nearby in a wooden chair with her feet propped up on his pillow. He had been texting Ricky non-stop since they left the show an hour before. She had been calling the landline at Eddie’s. Nobody was responding and it was making them nervous. Calling Eddie himself was a last resort.
“Do you remember when my dad came home and caught us in bed during senior year?”
Greg could tell she was trying to break the uncomfortable silence.
“I remember him grabbing me by my hair, pulling me down the stairs and throwing me out the front door naked. Do you mean that night?”
“Yep, that night. Mom called me a slut and stomped off. Dad sat down on the edge of my bed and started crying. I mean, like sobbing.”
“You were kind of a slut. That’s what first attracted me to you.”
“Very funny. Did you ever see your dad cry?”
Greg had only seen his father cry two times. The first time was when his mother died. Greg and Tim were both still very young. He could clearly remember his father falling apart when the three of them finally got home after the funeral. The second time was at Tim’s funeral. His father never really stopped crying the second time.
“No, my dad didn’t cry much.”
“I just got this sick feeling in my stomach that night. I promised myself that no matter what I would never make him feel like that again.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever told me that story before.”
“I kind of feel like I broke that promise tonight.”
“It wasn’t that bad. There have been plenty of fights at Eddie’s.”
“It’s not about the fight. I just have a really bad feeling. I don’t know how to explain it.”
His phone started vibrating and he sat up to answer it. Junior could hear her father’s voice on the line. He sounded calm, as if he was choosing his words very carefully. Greg said “okay” a few times and then let out a gasp as he turned to look at her.
“Ricky’s dead.”
›
The El Camino was the only civilian car in the parking lot when they pulled up to Eddie’s around midnight. An ambulance was pulling away from the side door as they walked up. Greg saw two paramedics working on somebody through the small back windows.
Eddie stood in the doorway with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Junior ducked under the police tape and ran to him with Greg close behind.
“I’m so sorry, Daddy.”
“It’s not your fault, sweetheart. I’m just glad you two are all right.”
Greg gave Eddie a squeeze on the arm and moved past them into the bar. He knew his VHPD badge wouldn’t do him much good here, but he still felt naked without it. It was hard to make out the details with the flashing police lights, but the place was a disaster. Tables and stools were flipped over, shattered glass and splatters of blood covered the floor.
From his vantage point just inside the door he had a view of both ends of Eddie’s. To his right an officer was talking to a couple of young guy
s at the bar. He didn’t recognize them, even though both were wearing BCC T-shirts. Greg was filled with a rising wave of guilt as he turned away. Up on the stage he saw two officers carefully sifting through the rubble of the band’s gear. It was painful to see Ricky’s amp tipped on its end with a tear down the front.
Greg started walking in that direction when a firm hand gripped his shoulder. His fists tightened and he stopped in his tracks. He spun around ready to fight and found himself facing Bay Cities Police Chief, Robert Stanley. Or, as he was known to generations of Bay Cities Little Leaguers, Officer Bob.
“Hello, Mr. Salem. Had a feeling you’d make your way back down here tonight. I’m really sorry about your friend.”
Greg looked down at his feet and tried to regain his composure. Thinking like a cop was the only way he was getting through this night.
“Got any leads on suspects?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Why don’t we head over there and chat.”
Greg followed the thickly built man to the bar. There was a large bald spot at the back of Officer Bob’s head that seemed more pronounced than usual. Greg thought he must have gotten pulled out of bed for the investigation. They grabbed two stools and sat face-to-face.
The bags under Officer Bob’s eyes were puffy and dark, and his teeth were yellow. Greg felt like he was watching the nemesis from his teenage years decaying right in front of his eyes.
“It seems pretty clear what happened here tonight, but I still have to ask you a few questions. You know the routine, Mr. Salem.”
Officer Bob opened his black leather note pad and lifted his pen to write. Greg remained silent, girding himself.
“Before we begin, I’d like to get some understanding about your state of mind. Were you drinking at any point tonight, or taking any other illicit drugs?”
“You know I’ve been sober for almost a decade.”
“Yes, but plenty of drunks fall off the wagon. It’s sort of an occupational hazard.”
“You want me to do a piss test?”
“That won’t be necessary, but thanks for offering. We had reports that you were seen speeding away from the scene with Eddie’s daughter shortly before the incident. Witnesses said you were in a pretty big hurry. That true?”
Why were they asking witnesses about Greg instead of focusing on the gunmen? Greg knew he had to choose his words carefully here. Local police departments didn’t always appreciate it when officers from other jurisdictions had opinions about their cases, especially officers who were not in good standing. He also knew that Officer Bob still saw him as the punk kid who had a lot of run-ins with the law over the years.
“It’s true that we left before the shooting started.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Junior was trying to save me from the bar fight.”
“Makes sense. She always was protective of you.”
Officer Bob let his eyes wonder around the room while he formed his next question.
“Is there any reason for us to suspect that you two knew a robbery was about to occur?”
“Robbery? You can’t be serious.”
“Please just answer the question and leave the police work to us.”
“Come on! These guys were after something other than money, or they wouldn’t have gone out of their way to shoot up the band.”
“Fine, let’s do this your way.”
Officer Bob closed his note pad and flung it onto the bar with a slap.
“For one, I don’t think they had any idea they were walking into a bar fight. So the gun could have been fired at the stage accidentally. Secondly, assuming that they hadn’t bothered to stake the place out first, it’s possible the shooter was looking for a second bar and cash register.”
“Sounds pretty open-and-shut the way you describe it, but you’ve been wrong before.”
Officer Bob spat out a nervous laugh. Greg was wiping a thin mist of spit from his cheek when the older man leaned in. His voice was a raspy hiss.
“Like it or not, Mr. Salem, I am in charge of all the police investigations in The Bay Cities. And right now I am trying to get to the bottom of a case that unfortunately involves you and a few of your friends. Forgive me if I don’t indulge your need to dredge up ancient history.”
“What do you want to know then?”
“Let’s start at the beginning. What time did you get to Eddie’s tonight?”
Greg explained the evening in detail while Officer Bob nodded along. He recounted every second, from the moment he showed up for sound check until arriving back at Eddie’s minutes ago.
“I have to ask you a tough question.”
Greg nodded. His arms were folded tightly across his chest. Officer Bob checked to see if anybody else around was listening.
“Can you think of anybody that would want to see your friend Ricky dead? Maybe your pal Marco, or somebody from that crew?”
Greg’s eyes stung at the mention of Ricky’s name. He refused to let himself cry in front of Officer Bob.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’ but there is something else I think you should consider.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, if this wasn’t a robbery—and I’m still not convinced it wasn’t—it might not have been Ricky they were after.”
Greg knew that Officer Bob was right. The shooters could have been there for him.
“There’s an obvious motive for wanting me dead, but I was performing under a stage name. Besides, Eddie’s is a long way from Virgil Heights.”
Greg pictured the green Impala in his head. He wondered if he was the one who had brought this violence down on The Bay Cities. Officer Bob gave him a knowing look before mercifully changing the subject.
“We’ll have more questions for you as the investigation continues. Why don’t you swing by my office on Monday morning to continue the conversation. Free around ten?”
Officer Bob stood up and walked out the front door, leaving Greg alone at the bar.
Chapter Six
A thin ray of early morning sun sliced through the blinds, slowly making its way across the floor to Greg’s bed. He thought about calling Ricky to see if he wanted to go surfing. It wasn’t until his feet hit the floor that the previous night came crashing down on him.
Three texts were waiting from Junior, spanning the few hours they had been apart since the shooting. The last message had been sent an hour before. He thought about calling her back, but hoped that she had finally fallen asleep. There wasn’t any new information anyway, and there wouldn’t be until he had a chance to track down some of the local beach rats.
He walked to the small dresser near the front door. His dingy studio apartment was in a converted garage only a few blocks from the beach. Greg had been renting the place since he officially stopped touring with Bad Citizen Corporation in his mid-twenties.
Three surfboards were mounted on racks above the doorjamb. One of the leashes dangled above his head as he slipped into his boxers. The Velcro from the ankle cuff brushed against his neck when he stood up. He almost jumped into a nearby closet.
Greg watched the leash swinging back and forth like a pendulum as he tried to catch his breath. His eyes scanned the room for the kid with the blue hat. Nobody was there. The light tapping on the front door sent his heart racing again until he heard the soft voice of his landlady, Ruth McMillan.
“Gregory, are you all right?”
He pulled some jeans and a T-shirt on before opening the door. She was standing on his welcome mat stooped forward to listen. At eighty-two she was slow to get herself totally erect again once she gave in to gravity. Greg could see the maternal concern on her face despite the floppy white gardening hat and huge sunglasses.
“Hello, Ruth. I’m fine. Just tripped and banged into the closet. No serious damage.”
>
He held his arms up at his sides and gave a little twist to prove he was okay. She lifted her shades and give him a suspicious look, as if considering the evidence.
“You almost gave me a heart attack. I was just trying to finish up my gardening before it gets too hot.”
Greg stuck his head out the door to look at the meticulous landscaping.
“Looks perfect, like it always does.”
“Jack did all the real work years ago. I just pluck the weeds out.”
Greg knew all about Ruth’s late husband. He made a killing in the local real estate market in the early seventies, back when land was still plentiful and cheap. Jack dropped dead of a heart attack in his late fifties, but Ruth never had to work again. Greg knew she needed his company more than she needed the rent.
His phone chirped at him from the bed. Mrs. McMillan took the opportunity to glance at the messy apartment, shaking her head in disgust.
“I’ll let you get back to whatever you’re doing in there.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to come in for some coffee?”
“Stop flirting, you’re too old for me.”
Greg definitely could have afforded a nicer place on his VHPD salary, but nothing this close to the beach. The real estate along the coast hadn’t been affordable since before Jack’s time. These days those multi-million dollar homes were for superstar athletes, movie stars, and their agents. They only let blue-collar locals like Greg and Ricky come around when they needed somebody to paint their walls or shingle their roof.
Squeezing into a snug wetsuit felt comforting to Greg’s exhausted brain. He grabbed the fiberglass paddle and hoisted the twelve-foot board under his arm. Seagulls were cawing overhead as he walked carefully along the pebbly street with calloused feet. The sand was still cold so early in the morning, but Greg was moving too fast to notice. He was at the shore and wading out into the calm surf within five minutes of leaving his apartment.
He walked into the water pushing his board beside him until he got waste deep. There was a group of five or six stand-up paddle boarders out beyond the slow rolling waves. They were moving west at a pretty good clip. Greg knew that he could catch them if he hurried.