by Stephen John
Gertie’s file opened the box easily. There was a large stack of mail, which was not surprising given how long Paul had been missing. I handed Ida Belle half the mail, and I took half. I asked Gertie to stand lookout in case anyone came along who might wonder what three women they’d never seen before were doing in the hallway.
My stack contained normal correspondence: utility bill, past due, second notice; cable bill, past due, final notice; auto insurance, past due, final notice. I also saw his notice of eviction.
“Nothing here we can use,” I said. “What about you, Ida Belle?”
“My stack is all coupons, advertisements, and other assorted junk mail,” she said.
“What’s that flyer on top?” I asked.
“This one?” she asked, holding it up.
I nodded.
Ida Belle gave it a scan.
“It’s just some advertisement for an all-female tribute band playing in town.”
“Who are they?” I asked.
“The name of the group is Hell’s Belles,” she said. “They’re a tribute band for...”
“AC/DC,” I finished.
“Right,” Ida Belle said, “except it’s all women in the band.”
That imaginary light bulb floating above my head went off, “We may have caught a break.”
“How so?” Ida Belle asked, ignoring the Gertie show.
“Carter told me that Paul is over-the-top crazy about the band AC/DC,” I said. “And the best AC/DC tribute band in the world is playing in Seattle tonight.”
“You’ve heard of Hells Belles?” Gertie asked.
“I have, and I have seen them on YouTube,” I said. “As tribute bands go, they have a great reputation. Angus Young himself said they were the best tribute band he’d ever heard.”
“Who’s Angus Young?” Ida Belle asked.
“He’s the guitar player and founder of AC/DC,” Gertie said. “Dresses in shorts without his shirt on.”
“That sounds sexy,” Ida Belle said.
Gertie shrugged, “It would be but he looks more like Richard Simmons than Richard Gere.”
“And you think...” Ida Belle began.
“Carter said Paul would drive anywhere within three-hundred miles to see AC/DC,” I said. “If this tribute band is as good as their reputation, I’m thinking Paul Pride might just be attending that show.”
“And the show is tonight,” Ida Belle said. She looked at the flyer again, “It’s at a venue called the El Corazon.”
“Do you think Carter knows about this?” Gertie said.
“That’s a good question,” I replied. “Ida Belle, when is that flyer postmarked?”
“The 23rd,” she said.
“Then Carter doesn’t know about this. He wrote to Ariel on the 22nd, saying he’d searched Paul’s apartment. That was the day before the flyer got here. Even if Carter checked the mailbox, the flyer would not have been in it.”
“The flyer was still in the mailbox,” Gertie noted. “The real questions are; does Paul Pride even know about it, and if he does, would he risk coming out of hiding to attend?”
“Both good questions,” I said. “They book these things months in advance. If Paul is as big of an AC/DC fan as Carter described, I’d bet he’s known about this show for a long time. He doesn’t know this flyer is in his mailbox and that someone might find it and make a connection. That’s good news for us. Whether he’d come out of hiding to see it—that’s anyone’s guess.”
“It would be doubtful that Montoya or the Feds would know Paul Pride was a big AC/DC fan or connect him to a tribute band.”
“Let’s hope so,” I said. “I’ll stake it out tonight.”
“We’re going with you,” Gertie said.
“No,” I replied. “The doors don’t open until seven o’clock. There are three bands on before Hell’s Belles. The Belles don’t go on until ten. I think you two should stake out Dick’s Burger’s on Broadway East. We know he likes to eat there a lot. It’s our next best lead.”
“Divide and conquer?” Ida Belle said.
“Good idea,” Gertie said. “In the meantime, we have a few hours. I want to drive out of town to one of those Indian Reservations they have here.”
“What on earth for? The casinos? Not the tobacco?”
“Just humor me, will you?”
“Whatever you’re doing, have fun and stay safe,” I said. “I’m buying a new outfit appropriate for the show tonight.”
Chapter 9
El Corazon is a dive just off Interstate-5 in the South Seattle area. The building was old and plain, painted royal blue with its logo on the side. There was a black marquee featuring a graphic of a satanic-looking character with horns and bat-wings. Corazon is Spanish for "heart,” but the association was not clear.
I got there early in case Paul Pride came to see the backup bands. I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes before the doors opened at seven p.m. A line formed as I expected. Paul was not there.
The crowd was a highly eclectic group, but I don’t mean multicultural in your typical Seattle sense. This crowd was almost all white people, but from ages twenty-one to sixty-five. AC/DC was a band that had gained popularity across many generations dating back to the mid-1970s. Angus Young himself is well over sixty now.
I dressed down—way down. I it was my goal to not attract attention to myself. I wanted to blend into the woodwork. My blue jeans were form fitting, but the rest of my ensemble was from the run-of-the-mill-hobo collection bought at the local Goodwill. I purchased a baggy, rumpled hooded sweatshirt and a non-matching burnt orange sock hat. I also found a pair of goofy sunglasses I had a tough time believing anyone would ever pay money for. My entire outfit cost under twelve dollars, except my Naked and Famous jeans and the oversized sweater covered them to down below my behind. I pulled my hair up under the sock hat and put on my new specs. I ditched my new shoes for the evening and put on my green and orange Nikes. I checked myself out in the mirror before I left. I was decidedly ‘un-hot.’
It had been raining, and the temperature was down to sixty degrees. Ah, the summers in Seattle. I was glad I’d worn a sweater.
I scanned the crowd outside waiting—still no sign of Paul Pride. The doors opened, and I entered, hoping to find a good seat in a position to see the crowd. The first bad news I ran into was that there was virtually no seating in the entire place. SRO—standing room only. They set the stage up in front of a large open area. There were perhaps six tables in the back on a small platform and the first six couples who entered the room filled them. The area in front of the stage was open. I guessed it would hold about three hundred people. The bar was to the left of the stage and there was one small bench there. Otherwise, the crowd was standing. It was seven p.m. now, and they scheduled Hell’s Belles at begin at ten. If the band played ninety minutes that meant I would stand for four and a half hours. Ugh.
I called Ida Belle and Gertie. They were camped out in the parking lot at Dick’s nursing a strawberry milkshake.
“We are in position,” Gertie said, on speakerphone. “Do you think he still looks like the picture you sent us from Carter’s email?”
“If he’s on the lam, the first thing he’d probably do is change his appearance,” I said. “I’d look for his hair to be shorter, maybe dyed darker. Maybe he’ll wear a hoodie. One thing he can’t change is the fact he is six-foot-three and weighs about two-forty. That should help you whittle down the candidates.”
“Roger that,” Ida Belle said. “How is it going there?”
“The first band is coming on in fifteen minutes.” I said.
“Who are they?” she asked.
“Their name is Knife Bludgeon,” I said, “and check this out. The lead singer’s name is Dutch Fister. Their signature song is ‘Butt Wart.’”
“They sound charming,” Ida Belle replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Okay, I’m getting a beer,” I said. “I have seen no sign of Paul Pride yet, but I�
�ll keep looking.”
“Be careful,” she said.
“I will.”
The ancient, rumpled sweater I wore had a hood. I pulled it over my head—it was the ugliest hat ever woven. I wanted to make myself as invisible and unattractive as I could, and from the amount of attention I was receiving, I was doing a splendid job. I wandered through the crowd nursing my beer and convinced myself Paul Pride had not yet arrived.
I eventually leaned against a support beam where I could see the doorway and could check out people as they came and went. The stage was also visible, but I hadn’t yet decided if that was an advantage.
The place was nearly full already, and I was certain by the time Hell’s Belles rolled onto the stage, the place would be over the fire marshal’s legal limit.
Knife Bludgeon took the stage and played. Mostly, the thirty-minute set was about as enjoyable as a visit to the overnight dentist. They were loud and played each song with the same four power chords. The lyrics of each song, those that I actually could make out, had something to do with someone hates someone, wanting revenge or exacting revenge in some graphic manner. The words “spilling your blood” seemed to pop up a lot in the music. I will reluctantly admit that I rather liked the song “Butt Wart,” and made a mental note to see if it was available on iTunes.
As awful as Knife Bludgeon was, the next two bands were even worse. Their names were, forgetfully, Cattle Decapitation and my favorite, Goatwhore. With exception of the aforementioned “Butt Wart,” the second two bands sounded much like the first—booming bass, overplayed drums, and four guitar chords played over and over in varying order. Goatwhore seemed to be the biggest hit with the audience, but my theory is that the crowd was just good and liquored up by the time the third band came on stage and were gearing up for Hell’s Belles.
I had downed the last of my third beer. I was feeling sort of a pre-buzz chill.
Lots of people seemed to come and going throughout the night. There was still no sign of Paul Pride, and I worried I was wasting my time. I sent a text to Gertie and Ida Belle. It was well after nine o’clock and there was no sign of Paul. They volunteered to drive down to join me but I said no; it was likely this would be a bust. It was almost time for Hells Belles to hit the stage and if he was going to show, I would have seen him already.
I was getting a little frustrated. I felt like we were grasping at straws and the man I came to help was resisting my efforts. We could be so much more effective if Carter and I worked as a team.
Damn his pig-headedness.
I had taken only one short break away from the door to hit the restroom, then stopped by the bar to grab one last beer. The restroom should have a doctor standing by to give you a shot for dysentery as you leave, if such a shot exists. I’m just saying.
Standing in line, waiting on my beer, I felt that wave of frustration flow over me again. I could have been looking for Paul Pride this whole time while Carter was finding a safe house for Ariel. Or better yet, I could have been the one finding the safe house for Ariel while he began the search. Ariel was flat out gorgeous. Did Carter not want me to see her—to know he had been spending time with her?
Was I jealous? Was there a reason to be? Maybe I should pass on the fourth beer. I was definitely feeling it now.
Ahhhhh! I wanted to choke Carter at the moment. The more time that went by the less chance we would have to find Paul Pride.
After I got my beer, an odd-looking man approached me; his breath heavily laced with whiskey. He was about five-foot-six, perhaps fifty-years-old, thin-framed except for a paunch around the middle, balding and dressed worse than I, if such a thing was possible. Threat factor = 1.0. Goofball factor = 9.5.
“I’m Roger. Are you holding?” he asked me.
“What?” I asked.
“I need a joint,” he said. “I have ten bucks.”
“Sorry, Roger,” I said.
“I can trade,” he added. He pulled out an unopened fully sealed bottle of Rebel Yell Whiskey.
“That’s the cheapest whiskey on the planet,” I said. As a teenager, I had Rebel Yell once or twice at a few parties. It wasn’t half bad.
“It’s good in beer,” Roger said.
“It doesn’t change anything. I don’t have a joint,” I said.
“I’ll tell you what,” he told me. “Open it. Have a shot in your beer. If you change your mind later...”
“No thanks, Roger,” I replied.
There was a rush of people filling up the place, fans who had waited until the last minute to see Hell’s Belles and avoid the first three bands—you know, the smart ones. There was a sea of black AC/DC t-shirts in the building. They now filled the place beyond capacity and I could no longer see the door or keep track of the people who were coming and going. The lights dimmed, further complicating the process. Stage smoke filled the place.
I had completely track of people coming and going. It was possible, however unlikely, that if Paul Pride had arrived, I may have missed it. I decided I needed to move to a different vantage point and give the place one last serious look before heading out. At the back of the floor area was a platform which housed the few tables in the place. It was possible if I could make my way to the rear, I might find a position to scan the audience for Paul. I moved when all hell broke loose.
Lady Angus, the guitarist for Hell’s Belles who played the Angus Young role, skipped out on stage. She was cute, maybe thirty-five with long blonde dreadlocks, no makeup and a thin, sinewy frame. She dressed in an Angus trademark schoolboy uniform. Only in this case, it was a schoolgirl uniform, complete with a plaid skirt, white shirt and a little schoolboy cap. She also carried a signature Angus Young red guitar, complete with devil horns. Paul Pride may not have shown but at least the final act looked promising.
The walls at El Corazon shook as people stomped and clapped for the band, and people packed in toward the stage. The crowd totally erupted when Lady Angus ripped into the opening riffs of “Thunderstruck,” an AC/DC signature song.
At the beginning of “Thunderstruck,” there is a portion of the song where the audience yells out, “Thun-der! Thun-der!” Everyone in the crowd raised both arms in the air and pumped their fists as they sang, and it created a sliver of space I could pass through. As this was happening, I moved in between people to make my way to the raised platform in the back.
As I was moving through the crowd, I felt a strong hand grab my butt and squeeze. I turned to face down the man who did it only to discover it was a woman, an extremely tall and muscular woman. She laughed and called me “sweet cheeks.” I felt like punching her out, but I let it go and moved on.
The band broke into “Shoot to Thrill” before I finally made my way back to the rear platform. By the time I had reached my destination I had rubbed my body against more sweaty men and women than I could remember. The one thing that made me happy about the clothes I was wearing is that I could burn them after the show and feel great about it.
What little walking space there was in El Corazon was on the platform with the six tables. I approached the banister to get the best view I could of the crowd. Even though I stood on a platform, I wasn’t high enough to get a good view of the entire crowd. The best position would be to my left I thought. I walked as far to my left as possible. There was a couple sitting at a table beside the banister.
I yelled at the man as loudly as I could to be heard over the music, which was “Highway to Hell,” at the moment. “Excuse me sir, would you mind standing for just a minute?”
This was one of those moments that my chosen ‘un-hot’ appearance was working against me—way against me. He looked at me as though I was the carrier monkey from the movie, ‘Outbreak.’
“Get out of my face,” he said. “I’m watching the show.”
“Please stand, just for a few seconds,” I repeated.
The man looked at his girlfriend and shrugged. He stood. I gently nudged him to his left and used the chair seat as a stepping stone to cl
imb on top of the bannister which was flat and about eight inches wide on the top, not ideal, but I thought I’d be able to maintain my balance as long as no one bumped me.
My presence on the bannister drew the ire from those on the platform seated behind me, however.
“Get down from there, you skank!” yelled one woman. “I didn’t pay to look at your scrawny ass.” A second person, a man, called me the “B” word, and a third person, a woman, called me the “C” word.
Nice.
I scanned the crowd as quickly as I could, fully expecting B-word man or C-word woman to approach me and knock me flat on my A-word.
I felt someone tugging at the material on my jeans, near my knee. I looked down. The man was the size of a small mountain. He had a thick beard and arms the size of tree trunks. His black t-shirt, which was at least two sizes too small, had large block letter across the front. SECURITY, it said.
“I’m afraid you must get down,” he said. His tone was unpleasant.
“Just a minute,” I pleaded. “I won’t be long. I’m just looking for my boyfriend.” I continued to scan and...
He looked me up and down dismissively, “I doubt that is the case.”
“Just a minute,” I repeated.
“I said now!” The security guard snarled. He grabbed my arm and in a single deft motion pulled me off the bannister and threw me over his shoulder holding me firmly by the wrist in one hand and my ankle in the other. The rest of my body was wrapped behind his neck. His move was impressive, really. He had done this a few times before.
The woman who so sweetly referred as a ‘skank,’ C-woman and B-man, and a smattering of people around them, cheered as the guard carried me away.
As the guard stepped down from the platform, I yelled, “Okay! Okay! You’ve made your point. Put me down.”
The guard didn’t answer, but continued to carry me like a sack of flour, ignoring my protests. He was heading for the door. He intended to throw me out of the building. I couldn’t let that happen.
“Put me down!” I demanded.