“So, is that how you win—by getting the most screams and applause from the kids?”
“Yeah. Sort of. But I make the final decision.”
“Of course.” Sondra understood. Wink, wink. If she accepted Craig’s new little plaything into her band, they would be sure to win on Friday night. But what if the kids went crazy over one of the other bands, and she was stuck with a lousy drummer? Billy-Eye might override Craig. Her band needed to be the most exciting, unique, outrageous group Orange County had ever seen.
“What’s the name of your band? Oh, I guess you don’t have one yet.”
“I’ve got some ideas.”
“Well, I don’t whether you’ve heard, but we’ve put the word out that we would prefer a band with a local-sounding name. You know, like The Sabine Rivers, or The Triangulars. Of course, you won’t want to use either of those names since I’m giving them as examples. Chances are, one of these bands will.”
Don’t worry, she thought. She’d already had something a lot better. It had just hit her. But she didn’t want to tell him yet. That would spoil the effect. “What’s the latest I can give you the name?”
“Wednesday morning. I’m going to record a radio spot that afternoon.”
“Okay.”
They exchanged cell phone numbers. He said he would call her a little later to set up a time to meet with Cindy.
She walked out the door and saw the line of losers. They don’t stand a chance, she thought.
Then she noticed a newcomer at the end of the line. She was petite, mid-twenties, long black hair. Did she bring that big red guitar, or did it bring her? Sondra had no idea whether the girl could play, but she loved her instrument. It was a Gibson ES-335 with classic 1957 humbucker pickups. “Nice.”
“Thanks.”
“What’s the name of your band?”
“Rainbow Bridge.”
“Y’all renamed your band for this gig, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. Dumb, huh?”
“Well, they do want something local sounding.”
Rainbow Bridge was about twenty miles from where they were standing, between Bridge City and Port Arthur. It was built in 1938, yet is still the tallest bridge in Texas.
“I don’t know where the rest of my band is. They should have been here by now.”
“I’m Sondra.” She offered her hand.
“E. Z.”
Sondra looked amused.
“No, no. Not Easy. It’s initials. E. Z. Bender.”
“Oh, I get it. You play lead guitar.”
“Right.”
“I like it.”
“Thanks.”
Sondra leaned in, and whispered, “Could you come over here for a minute?”
E. Z. nodded and followed her some thirty feet away from the line.
“Would you be interested in auditioning for my band?”
“I told you I’m already in a band,” said E. Z. “They’re just running late.”
“Yeah, but would you consider a change for the better?”
E. Z. studied Sondra’s eyes, and saw mischief—maybe even danger. “Sure.”
“Good. How about getting together tonight?”
“That’ll work. Do you already have a name for your band?”
“Yes, I do.” She waited a moment, for effect. “Orange Puke.”
“Sounds nasty.”
“Yeah.” Sondra laughed. “We’re gonna blow chunks. But in a good way.”
End of preview.
5 - EDSEL TORKMAN
“To be real honest, Jeffrey, you’re not making much progress,” said Greg. “Are you practicing at all?”
“Well, yeah. Mom makes me. She sits there watching to make sure I’m getting the right fingering and phrasing.”
“Hmm. I might need to talk to her about that.” Greg hated when kids were forced into musicianship. He had been teaching private music lessons for more than ten years, and had seen it often. Parents made their kids miserable. It rarely worked anyway. “You don’t really want to take piano, do you?”
“No, Sir.”
“Well…”
“I wish my mom would let me take guitar lessons. That would be cool.”
“You know you’d get calluses like this.” Greg held out left hand and showed Jeffrey his fingertips.
“Yeah! My friend, Zach, has calluses. They’re hard like plastic.”
“Well, you know, it hurts for a while—until you build them up.”
“I don’t care. I love the guitar. I’ve been begging Mom to switch me from piano to guitar.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
“Great! I already have a guitar and—“
“—don’t get too excited yet. We’ll see what she says.”
“Thanks, Mr. Tenorly.” He jumped up and ran for the front door. Then he stopped, rushed back over to grab his piano books, and raced out the door.
Greg’s 3:30 lesson had been cancelled, so he now had a thirty minute break. Oftentimes, during a break, he would step outside and wander down the sidewalk, observing the townspeople going in and out of the shops around Coreyville Square.
But something was bugging him. His dad’s birthday party was only a few days away. He hoped he wouldn’t regret letting Cynthia talk him into going.
Then he began to think about his uncle. He had not seen Uncle Ed in a long, long time. He hoped they would be able to just pick up where they’d left off. They always seemed to be able to do that.
Edsel Torkman was his mom only sibling. Ed had always been odd—even as a child. Kids made fun of him because he talked faster than most people could listen. Sometimes, he would begin to stutter. Then the kids would laugh out loud. But it never seemed to bother Ed.
As a child, Greg had been afraid of his uncle. But there was one thing about him that Greg had grown to admire. Edsel Torkman didn’t believe in check books and credit cards. He preferred carrying cold hard cash. And Greg always looked forward to that crisp new fifty-dollar in each Christmas and birthday card.
But that was about the extent of their relationship—until Greg bought his first car at age 16. He paid cash for the thing, from his paper route earnings. The big 1975 Ford Thunderbird had 250,000 miles on it, and weighed in at some 5,000 lbs. It got 8 miles per gallon—on the highway.
Uncle Ed had his own auto repair shop. And when he heard about Greg’s purchase, he insisted on overhauling the engine—for free.
Greg was thrilled—until he found out that Uncle Ed expected him to act as assistant mechanic. But he really wanted to get his car running. How would he ever ask a girl out if he didn’t have a car? And it turned out to be a fun learning experience. Ed was different—but he wasn’t weird. In fact, he was the coolest guy Greg had ever known.
Greg sat down at his computer, and looked up Edsel Torkman’s Auto Shop.
The phone rang ten times. Greg was about to hang up, when Ed answered.
“Torkman’s.”
“Uncle Ed?”
“Yeah. Greg, is that you?” He talked so fast and so excitedly that he sounded as if he’d polished off a gallon of coffee in less than an hour. “I mean, are you Greg? Greg Tenorly. Are you my nephew Greg Tenorly?”
“Yes, Uncle Ed, it’s—“
“—so, it’s Greg?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Well, what have you been up to, Greg? Not flipping cow patties, I’ll bet, huh?” Then the stuttering kicked in. “Not doing that, ah-are ah-are you, ah-are you, Greg?”
Then Greg remembered the key to slowing him down. Talk to him very slowly. “How are you, Ed?”
“Doing fine,” he blurted. Then he slowed his speech just a little. “I’m doing fine.”
“Well, the reason I’m calling—“
“—you got another engine that needs overhauling? We had one trick of a time doing your Thunderbird, didn’t we? When was that? Two years ago?”
It had been nearly 20 years. And Greg had never understood why his uncle used the word ‘trick’ instead
of ‘heck’ or something else. He’d say things like: We’d better get tricking. Or, what in the trick are you doing? Or, I torn the trick out of my knuckle when the wrench slipped. It was like the Smurfs. The Smurfs use the word ‘smurf’’ to mean a lot of different things, depending on the context. Uncle Ed used ‘trick.’
“No, Uncle Ed. It’s been quite a while since we did that.” Get to the point, Greg told himself. “Are you going to my dad’s birthday party?”
“Well, sure—if somebody invites me. Oh, trick! That’s right. Norma invited me to the party. Did you know your dad remarried?”
“I just found out.”
“Yeah. I’d like to get married someday. Someday.” He said the word a second time, as though he’d forgotten to say it the first time.
“Someday? Ed, you’re 50 years old. What’s stopping you?”
“Well…”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Angie. Well, she’s not really my girlfriend, but—“
“Angie Silverstern? She’s married, Ed.”
“No. She’s not.”
“Yeah. Don’t you remember? That’s why her name’s not Mayberly anymore—she married Clifford Silverstern. I know you used to have a crush on her, but—“
“No. She’s divorced.”
“Really? Okay. Well, then go for it, Uncle Ed.”
“I will.”
“No. Don’t put it off.”
“I won’t.”
Greg wasn’t convinced. “I’ll tell you what: I’m coming down for the birthday party, and if you haven’t told Angie how you feel by then—“
“—then you’re gonna help me?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. It’s a deal.”
“And my new wife, Cynthia, is coming too.”
“Oh, yeah. I heard you were getting married.”
“Ed, I sent you a wedding invitation.”
“Oh, yeah. I guess that’s where I heard it.”
“I hated that you couldn’t make it. I would love for you to have been there.”
“I was planning to come…”
But you forgot, thought Greg. “It’s okay. Well, I’ll see you soon. Now walk across the street and have a talk with Angie. She does still work at the restaurant?”
“Of course.”
“Then, go. Tonight.”
**********
Sondra strapped her guitar on, and adjusted her mike stand. “Ready?” Her voice echoed.
Cindy Banya nodded from her place at the drums.
E. Z. Bender grabbed the guitar pick from her between her lips and said, “Let’s do it.”
“Okay, let’s try ‘Crash and Burn,’” said Sondra.
Cindy knew of several songs by that name, but took a guess that Sondra wanted the one by The Bangles. A song about deliberately killing yourself in a car crash seemed like something Sondra might like to sing.
E. Z. Bender made the same guess.
Craig Buttard watched from across the huge hall. He could hardly wait to see Billy-Eye’s filled with excited, money-squandering teenagers. The free cokes and popcorn would help lure them in. And then they would spend loads of money on hot dogs, pizza, and candy.
When they had finished the song, and the reverberation had died down, he yelled, “Alright! Sounded great!” He walked toward the stage.
“Not too bad,” admitted Sondra. “But we’ve got a ton of work to do before Friday night.”
“What about your friend, the bass player?” said E. Z.
“I talked to her this afternoon,” said Sondra. “She’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Cool,” said Cindy.
Craig winked at Cindy. She smiled at him.
He had succeeded in getting her into a band. Now he would work at getting her into his bed.
**********
Val lit up another joint. She had such amazing thoughts while she was high. But the next day she would realize that she must have forgotten most of the details, since none of it made any sense.
She loved to sit in the wooden swing on her back porch and watch the sun go down. Sometimes the clouds were so colorful. And it was fun to look for shapes. Like the girl walking her dog.
When Sondra was five years old, she brought a puppy home and begged to keep it. Muttly never got very big—even when he was a full grown pooch. But Sondra’s father, Buster, made her start keeping him on a leash after that night he came home drunk and tripped over him.
Buster always came home drunk on Friday and Saturday nights. Not on Sunday nights, though. Sunday was the Lord’s day, he’d say. This was ironic, since Buster never had much use for church or the Lord.
Sometimes Sondra would get busy with her friends and forget to feed Muttly. By the end of the day, he’d be alternately crying and growling, and wouldn’t stop until somebody fed him.
One particular Friday night, while Sondra was attending an out-of-town football game, Buster came home drunk and heard Muttly whining. He was determined to teach Sondra a lesson, and to fix the problem once and for all. So, he staggered into the back yard and took care of it.
When Sondra finally made it home, at around midnight, she went to the back yard to feed Muttly. She opened the big plastic container that was next to his little doghouse, scooped out a serving and poured it into the bowl while calling his name softly. There was no response.
Sondra knelt down and looked inside the doghouse. By the light of the moon, she could see that he was gone. She noticed his leash, latched to the doghouse, as always. But it was pulled tight. She began calling his name again, as she felt along the leash, which led her upward. Her stomach began to knot. The leash was pulled taut, over the five-foot fence.
She peeked over the top, and to her horror, saw her beloved pet hanging by his collar. She pulled him up quickly and took his lifeless little body in her arms, and cried for twenty minutes.
How could this have happened? She knew exactly how it happened.
She cried herself to sleep and didn’t get out of bed until Saturday afternoon.
That night, when Buster came home drunk, he had a terrible accident. It appeared that he lost his footing at the top of the front porch steps, and fell backward. His head hit the concrete sidewalk like a bag of ice thrown from a third story window.
Buster Crench would never again harm an innocent, defenseless creature.
6 - ANGIE
“Edsel?” said Angie.
“Yeah?” he said, from under the Oldsmobile.
“Dinner is served.”
“Aw, Angie, you shouldn’t have done that.”
“Well, what I’m I supposed to do? Let you starve?”
Edsel and Angie went through this at least two or three nights a week. He normally walked over to Angie’s restaurant for dinner. But some nights he’d lose track of time.
Angie’s Country Fried Two-Step served man-sized homestyle meals. And incredible desserts. People would drive all the way from Deweyville, about twenty-five minutes north of Orange, just for a taste of Angie’s cherry pie—topped with Blue Bell ice cream, of course.
Her father, Herman Mayberly, had done nothing but gripe since he retired and let Angie take over the restaurant. She had spent thousands of dollars renovating the place, adding a small dance floor and a little stage. And he could not understand why she had to change the name. Mayberly’s. It was the family name. And—it sounded like neighborly. How could you go wrong with a name like that?
A local country band provided live dance music every Friday and Saturday night. The youngest band member was 48. The rest of the week, people had to make do with the jukebox.
She had tried to explain her reasoning to her father. Angie’s was to remind everybody that she was now running things. Country Fried let people know that they were still serving homestyle food. And Two-Step was, of course, short for Texas Two-Step, a popular country/western dance. Herman thought the dance floor was a particularly stupid idea. It’ll cost too much, he said, and it’s a waste of space. If sh
e was going to enlarge the building, it should be to accommodate more tables.
“Come on, now,” said Angie. “It’s after 8:00.”
“I’m coming.”
He stood up, walked over to the sink, grabbed the bar of Lava soap, and began to lather up his greasy hands and arms.
Angie liked to stay and talk with him while he ate. They had been friends since she was in high school. He was eight years older than her. And even at 42, she still looked like a teenager to him. He figured her curly brown hair would never turn gray. His, on the other hand, was beginning to.
He was about to sit down when he noticed that something was not right. “What’s this? Where’s my chicken fried, chick-chicken fried, chicken fr-fried steak?”
Usually, Angie’s mere presence was enough to calm his stuttering. But not if he got upset.
“You shouldn’t be eating fried food every night, Edsel. It’s not good for you. This grilled chicken is healthy. Try it.”
He sat down at the little table, cut a piece and put it in his mouth. “Yeah, that’s pretty good.” Then he noticed that something else was missing too. “But what about the gravy? That’s my favorite part, Angie.”
“No, you see, you don’t need gravy with grilled chicken.”
“Maybe you don’t.”
“I’m just looking out for you, Edsel.”
“I know. And I appreciate it. Sorry for being grouchy about it.”
He took a bite of green beans, and some corn. Then he washed it down with iced tea.
She sat down across from him. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you—did you get an invitation to Ralph’s birthday party?”
“Yep.”
“Are you going? You know it’s his 75th.”
“I know. Yeah, I’m planning to.” Then he remembered. “And Greg’s coming!”
“Really? How do you know?”
“He called me today. And that boy hasn’t stepped foot in Orange in—I don’t know how long.”
“Well, that’s going to be…quite a reunion.”
“I know. There’s gonna be fireworks. He and his daddy are both so bull-headed.”
“Edsel…do you have a date for the party?”
“A date?” She might as well have asked if he had a million dollars in his pocket.
Greg Tenorly Suspense Series Boxed Set Page 62