Rock Chick Reckoning

by Ashley, Kristen

  For a second Floyd looked like he was going to say something more then his face went soft. He closed the distance between us and leaned in, putting his forehead to mine.

  “I’m happy,” I repeated quietly, putting my hands on Floyd’s shoulders and giving him a squeeze to make my point.

  Floyd lifted his head.

  “I want to believe that,” he said, his voice had lost the steel and was now just sweet. “But, Stella, you break my heart.”

  That hand wrapped around my heart squeezed tighter so my fingers on his shoulders gripped harder.

  “I don’t want to break your heart,” I whispered. “Please, just let me do what I have to do,” Then, even softer, I said, “I need you, especially you, to support me.”

  A smile played about Floyd’s mouth but he shook his head.

  “Love you, girl. Love you like you were my own.”

  I felt another heart squeeze, another gut kick, both at the same time. Somehow, though, these didn’t hurt.

  “But, I’m rooting for Mace this time. I ain’t standin’ by lettin’ him slip through your fingers again.”

  I reared back but Floyd leaned in close.

  “I’m gonna do what I have to do to help him break you.”

  Oh my God!

  “Floyd!” I shouted.

  He put his hand on my cheek, grinned then said, “It’s for your own good.”

  I’d heard him say that to his daughters, dozens of times.

  I stared at him, speechless and shocked, as he moved away, grabbed my guitar case and walked out without another word.

  Juno and I watched him go then Juno looked at me and woofed.

  “You got that right, girl,” I said to my dog, feeling distinctly like I was sinking. “My luck sucks.”

  Juno woofed in agreement.

  I stared back at the door.

  Then I asked my dog, “What do you think he meant by pain in Mace’s eyes?”

  I looked to Juno and a big string of drool plopped from her lip to the floor. This I decided to take as a Juno shrug. Then I decided to do a mental shrug and not think about pain and Mace and, most especially, not his eyes.

  * * * * *

  The Palladium was an old movie theater on Colfax that had been turned into a huge club fifteen years ago. The bloom had long since gone off the rose. It was filthy, smelled of beer with hints of smoke and the occasional waft of vomit.

  But the acoustics were perfect.

  You could get five hundred people in there without the fire department getting antsy but the owner, a man strangely named Monk (who was anything but), pushed the fire code limits every time The Gypsies came to play. We were pure gold to him. We could pack the place at top dollar on the door with lines down the sidewalks waiting to get in and tonight was no exception.

  We loved playing there. The stage was big and gave us room to move and all of us preferred the big crowds. We were happy doing the more intimate gigs at Herman’s or The Little Bear but we were on fire when we had a full house at The Palladium.

  And tonight was no different. The place was shoulder-to-shoulder.

  Seeing as it was an outside possibility that this would be my final performance, I wasn’t holding back. I’d even dressed beyond the pale just in case I was going to die. I didn’t want my corpse to be anything but full on rock ‘n’ roll.

  I’d scrunched out my hair to maximum, wavy volume. I’d done smoky, just short of slut-o-rama, makeup. I’d pulled on faded jeans, a black tank with silver sequins and rivets stitched on the front in the shape of a coiled, striking snake and a racer back so you could see my black bra straps. I’d threaded a black, tooled-leather belt with a huge, intricately filigreed silver buckle through my belt loops. Completing my ensemble were black cowboy boots with a higher than normal light heel and kickass designs etched into the leather, huge, wide, silver-hopped earrings, silver rings on every finger (sometimes more than one) and a kickass, wide, battered, silver band was shoved up my arm, hugging my bicep.

  We were at the end of our second of four forty-five minute sets and I was beginning to loosen up.

  I was loosening up because I knew four Nightingale men, wearing black windbreakers with the word “Security” in huge yellow letters on the back, were manning the four sets of double doors. Ike, Jack, Bobby and Matt, each paired with one of Monk’s bouncers, all of them wanding everyone that came in and searching backpacks and purses. Luke was floating between the doors, not wearing a windbreaker but being generally badass thus not inviting killer intentions. Eddie, Hank and Willie Moses were all drifting through the crowd, badges and guns on full display on their belts, further dampening any nefarious mood. I knew Hector was outside because I saw him briefly when Luke brought Ava and me to the gig. Hector emerged from the shadows, gave Luke a nod, me a once over with his black eyes and then he slid back into shadows again. Vance was stationed at the door that led backstage. Lee was on the stage, at the back, in the dark, watching the crowd.

  If this wasn’t enough, I noticed that Indy’s coffee man, Tex, had planted himself at a stool, back to the bar and I could see when my glance strayed to him that the big man’s eyes were rarely on the stage. Duke, on the other hand, had planted himself in front of me, moving up and down the front of the stage whenever I moved. Even though his back was mostly to me, I suspected from the looks on the faces of the crowd closest to him that he was glaring them down, squashing the happy vibe. All except the Rock Chicks, all of whom (except Jules) were front and center. Happy vibe secure, Indy, Ally, Jet, Roxie, Daisy, Shirleen, Ava and Annette were singing along with me at the top of their lungs and screaming like freaks after every song.

  As far as I could tell, Mace had not yet arrived.

  I figured even Madonna didn’t have this caliber of security so it was unlikely tonight was my night to die.

  And that made the gig all the more sweet.

  My glance slid to Floyd and I gave him the nod.

  It was time.

  We were going to deviate from the set list. Everyone in the band knew about it.

  Everyone, that was, but Buzz.

  Floyd caught Leo’s eye and Leo lifted his chin just as Hugo caught on and grinned, stepping toward a microphone.

  Buzz was looking at his boots.

  The band might be on fire but Buzz was only swept up in the flame, he wasn’t participating much in building it higher. His mind was on other things.

  I took my eyes off Buzz, looked at the crowd and wrapped my hand around the microphone with a toss of my hair.

  This was Pong and Leo’s cue.

  Pong’s sticks clicked on the drums, Leo started the first chords and I knew without looking that Buzz had clued in. He couldn’t help but clue in. We all knew what those clicks and strums meant.

  “This one’s for Linnie,” I told the crowd.

  Everyone screamed; the wave of sound hit the band, firing us up all the more even though most people probably had no idea who Linnie was. They didn’t care, any song that was for someone was going to be something. And this song, a song we rarely ever played, they knew would rock the whole fucking house.

  I glanced at Buzz and found his face was pale but his eyes were on me and they were shining. I looked away, knowing if I kept looking at him I’d lose it, just as Hugo’s deep voice started smoothly delivering the lyrics.

  And the lyrics were to ZZ Top’s killer, kickass “La Grange”.

  Hugo sang.

  A few more strums, a few more clicks.

  I felt it in my belly, like I always felt it in my belly just like I knew Linnie always felt it in her belly.

  Wait for it… my brain breathed in anticipation.

  Pong’s drums went wild and Leo’s soft guitar went solid. The crowd surged in and my stomach plunged.

  This is what it’s all about. This is what Linnie lived for, my brain told me what I already knew, because I understood Linnie. I lived for it too.

  Hugo’s velvet voice slid back in, “Have mercy…” then he sm
oothed through the “haw haws” and then delivered the lyrics.

  When it was time, Pong rounded out the beat; I went front stage and started to blow the lid off.

  “Have mercy,” Hugo finished, stepped back with a big, white smile at me and I rolled.

  I walked the stage, eyes on the crowd, Leo and Pong setting the rhythm. I watched the crowd throb, the heads bob, the bodies sway, the hands in the air jacking out the beat. I smiled wide at them. They were asking for it and, as usual, I gave it to them. It was the only good thing I had to give, I was generous with the gift and they sucked it right up.

  Leo stopped, Pong and I took turns, Leo cut in and I cut out, leaving it to Leo and Pong.

  Then Pong exploded, Leo came back and, finally, so did I.

  Floyd joined the fun, scooting across the stage, crouched low, jaw jutting back and forth, playing air guitar like he was a white Chuck Berry.

  I watched Floyd’s antics and only I could hear my laughter over the music. My eyes moved to Hugo who was doing a weird, super fly black man dancing to rock ‘n’ roll dance, shoulder’s moving up and down, hands tucked tight to his chest, head bobbing, feet moving around in a wide square.

  The crowd was there, feeding us but they’d also somehow melted away.

  The band was all on its own. We were the only ones in the club and we were tight, most ev’ry night and there was no mistake about it.

  Buzz, his bass not needed in the song, was jumping up and down, a wide smile on his lips, tears streaming down his face, his bass flipped around so it was at a slant along his back.

  I was working the stage, working the band, following alongside Floyd as he made another crazy crouch-walk back across the stage.

  I tossed my hair, throwing my head back to do it and just kept playing.

  I stopped, leaned forward at the hips and laughed open-mouthed in the direction of Leo who was moving his hips and shaking his head, his dirty hair in his eyes, grinning like a loon. I looked to Pong who was banging on the drums, swinging his wild hair around so much it was like a living thing.

  Linnie would love this, my brain told me.

  Linnie always loved this, I told my brain and she did. Linnie’s favorite was always ZZ Top’s “La Grange”, she begged us to do it, every gig.

  Here’s to Linnie, my brain whispered.

  “Here’s to Linnie,” I whispered back.

  I smiled at Buzz, he smiled at me and went to the microphone as the notes started to fade.

  “Long live rock ‘n’ roll!” he screamed.

  The crowd roared.

  I nodded at the lighting guy.

  The stage went black.

  * * * * *

  A bottle of Fat Tire beer was shoved into my hand by Duke when I came down the steps at the side of the stage.

  “We got trouble,” Duke growled but I’d already felt it. The high from “La Grange” disappeared in a flash and my eyes moved to the source of the trouble just as Duke plastered himself to my side and the band came clattering down behind me.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Floyd asked.

  I moved toward the back wall where Lee, Vance and a newly-arrived Mace had Monk pinned to the wall using nothing but their collective badass presence to hold him there.

  “And lighten the fuckin’ crowd,” I heard Mace finish on a snarl when I stopped several feet behind his back. I didn’t have to see his face to know Mace was not in a good mood. I just had to look at the straight line of his back and the tight way he was holding his powerful body.

  “Have you lost your fuckin’ mind?” Monk screeched, eyes huge and riveted on Mace.

  “You don’t close down the door and lighten the crowd, I’m gonna lose my fuckin’ mind, make no mistake,” Mace returned and, honest to God, there was no mistake to be made in the tone of Mace’s voice.

  Lordy be.

  “What’s happening?” I asked.

  Four sets of male eyes moved to me but it was Monk who spoke.

  “Stella, beautiful, call off your man.”

  I felt the band settle in behind me and Duke was still close to my side.

  “What’s happening?” I repeated.

  “You don’t call off your man, we got problems,” Monk threatened.

  I never liked Monk. I suspected he skimmed from our take on the door. I knew he watered down drinks. I also knew he didn’t card pretty young girls nor did he serve them the watered down booze. He also got too close when he talked to me and he had bad breath. All this was not conducive to me liking him so I never did.

  I shoved in between Mace and Vance.

  “What… is… happening?” I asked, speaking slowly and sounding as pissed off as I was.

  I mean, no one messed with a ZZ Top vibe.

  No one.

  Especially not someone like Monk.

  Monk had dark, thick, bushy hair around the sides of his head but he was bald and shiny at the top. He was shorter than me, rounder than anyone I knew and had weasel eyes. He looked like a weird, scary clown without the makeup.

  “He’s over code for maximum capacity,” Lee answered for Monk. “And his boys aren’t doing thorough searches.”

  This was not good.

  Monk often went over code, this wasn’t a surprise. But thorough searches were kind of important if I wanted to be breathing in the morning. And equally important for all the Rock Chicks to be safe.

  “You know how long it takes to wand someone and look through their shit? It’d take hours to get people in here,” Monk flashed at Lee then lost his bravado and visibly quailed when Lee’s angry eyes sliced to him.

  “Monk, do you have any idea what’s at stake here?” Floyd had shoved in between Lee and Mace and he looked even angrier than Lee but not more than Mace, one glance at Mace said very bad things for Monk’s immediate future).

  Before Monk could answer, Lee cut in and said to Monk, “You agreed to the procedure.”

  “I agreed but I had no idea it’d be this tight, take that long at the door. The Gypsies are a solid act but there were people leaving the line and goin’ home. That’s me losin’ money, I don’t like losin’ money.” Monk, stupidly, wasn’t backing down.

  “You still got a line outside and you’re over capacity. You aren’t losin’ shit,” Vance threw in.

  “Turn ‘em away, close the door and thin the fuckin’ crowd. I want fifty people ejected before the next set,” Mace demanded.

  I watched Monk and it was like in the cartoons when dollar signs rolled in character’s eyes. You could see Monk calculating the loss at the bar, not to mention the cover charge he’d have to return if he ejected fifty people.

  “That’s not gonna happen,” Monk told Mace.

  Mace leaned in and it was not a friendly, shiny-happy-people lean.

  Definitely not good.

  Okay then, time for me to intervene.

  I pushed in front of Mace and pressed my back into his front in an effort to hold him back.

  “You don’t do it, we don’t go back onstage,” I said to Monk.

  “You don’t go back onstage, you don’t get paid,” Monk said to me.

  “You don’t pay, I break your legs,” Mace joined the exchange.

  “Awesome,” Pong muttered from behind us.

  Pong had always liked the idea of us employing muscle so we wouldn’t get cheated by club owners (which happened a lot). Unfortunately, we’d never been able to afford it and even though Hugo had volunteered to kick some ass, I was worried he’d break a finger or something doing it. We needed his fingers, fingers were kind of important for a saxophone player so I forbade it.

  Lee got in closer to Monk.

  “You eject fifty people and you shut down the door. We got five cops in the club and they’ll call in the code violation if you don’t. Then they might feel inclined to call the TTB, just for shits and grins.”

  At this, Monk paled.

  “What’s the TTB?” I heard Leo whisper from behind us.

  “Fuck knows,” Pong m
uttered.

  “Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau,” Hugo answered.

  “Oh jeez,” Leo breathed with more than a hint of panic.

  “Relax, it ain’t the DEA,” Buzz threw in.

  “Thank God for that,” Leo said with relief.

  “And anyway, that bag of grass you got in your guitar case ain’t shit to the DEA,” Pong declared.

  “Yeah, they got bigger fish to fry,” Hugo pointed out sagely.

  I made a quick prayer for deliverance from a band who would talk openly about one of their members in possession of a bag of marijuana after having just heard five cops were in the crowd.

  When no deliverance was forthcoming, I twisted and looked around Mace’s body to the boys in my band.

  “Would you guys shut up?” I snapped.

  They all just stared at me with expressions that said, “What?”

  My effing band.

  I turned back around to Monk.

  “So?” I prompted when Monk didn’t speak.

  Monk’s expression twisted into one that made him look like he’d just sucked on a lemon. It was not attractive. At the best of times Monk was not attractive so one could say this was more like, really not attractive.

  “I’ll close down the door and thin the crowd,” Monk gave in.

  I looked at the ceiling. “Thank you, God.”

  My eyes came back to Monk when he started speaking again.

  “Stella, you continue to be this big of a pain in the ass and this asshole stays connected to the band,” Monk jerked a thumb at Mace, “I’ll have to rethink my schedule.”