The crowd packed in tight around the stage, wild and loving Waves of Nausea.
She ducked a flying can that bounced off a cymbal, another hitting the back wall of plastered handbills and spray paint. Wimpy unslung the bass and dove off the stage again. Kids trying to catch him, then dropping him, the man landing on the concrete, slow getting up, hands shoving him back onto the stage. Somebody passing him a fizzing beer.
•
Snatching a handful of shirt, Stain dragged Zeke backwards into the can, flinging him, Zeke slammed against the urinal. Head striking the wall, losing his footing, he ended sitting in the pisser, urinal cake soaking his ass. Felt like his arm was busted, pain shooting through him. The big man coming at him, grabbing him again.
“The fuck I just tell you?” Words and spit, Stain throwing him again. Smacking him into the sink, head smashing the grimy mirror. Zeke’s legs gave out and down he went. The smell of piss. The floor wet under his hands.
Getting up, Zeke stumbled left, then right, tripping into the toilet, down on the floor again. Hand fumbling for the pistol.
Not worried about an empty gun, Stain came at him. Pounding music drowning out Zeke’s yelling. Waves of Nausea tearing into “Jailhouse Rock.”
His back pressed against the black wall, Zeke pointed the pistol. Stain reached the clip from his pocket, holding it up. This badass forgetting he pulled it. Saying it was time for that pistol-fucking.
Couldn’t hear the words, Zeke stuck the barrel into the big gut. The pistol bucked in his hand, the shot muffled.
Felt like he’d been punched, Stain reeling back, looking down like he didn’t believe it, the dark wet spreading across his belly.
“One in the chamber, asshole,” Zeke yelled over the music, aimed again and dry-fired. Flipping the pistol, he swung for the side of Stain’s head.
Stain stayed on his feet. Catching and twisting the barrel away, he cuffed Zeke on the side of the head, doing it again, Zeke throwing his arms up, trying to ward off the blows, trying to back away. Stain tossed the pistol down, shoved Zeke against the sink, bent him backwards, hands clamping around his throat, squeezing, taking Zeke’s air. The two of them head to head. Stain kept squeezing.
The dexies sparked like a charge, Zeke clutching at the hands, then letting go, grabbing at Stain’s belly, like squishing bloody hamburger. Yelling, Stain let go, stumbling back, keeping to his feet.
Light and the rush of sound, some guy with a mohawk came in and froze in the doorway, then ran back out, wanting no part of what was going on.
Feet slipping on the bloody, wet floor, Zeke gasped for air, his throat felt crushed.
Stain went to one knee, middle of the floor, the fight going out of him, flopping to his side, his hands holding his gut, blood spilling on the floor.
Zeke was standing over him, sucking in air, felt like he was breathing through a straw. He threw a kick at Stain, the Frye boot with the two-inch heel. Stain down on his back, couldn’t defend himself. Zeke kicking at his head, not much behind it, but smashing the nose, blood flowing from the mouth.
The door flew open again, and Monk rushed in, taking it in, yelling something Zeke couldn’t understand. Zeke backing up, looking around, nowhere to go. Feeling for the blackjack in his pocket. Monk looked down at Stain, pulling his switchblade, letting Zeke see it coming.
. . . FUN WHILE IT LASTS
The first set had gone like a blur. Frankie’s black hair matted to her head. Wasn’t a drug that could do that — like a rock and roll orgasm. Finished up the set with Generation X’s “Ready Steady Go.” The crowd singing backup.
A guy with rose glasses was there from Perryscope, all smiles and thumbs-up. Nudged his way to the front of the stage, passing Frankie a card, making a phone with thumb and pinkie, telling her to call. That EP and tour down the coast was feeling real. Reaching out, she walked across the stage, slapping hands waving up from the crowd. Taking it all in. The lights bright and hot. Felt like heaven.
Never saw Monk coming from the can, blood all over his shirt, or Johnny rushing into the can, people milling around the door.
Frankie sat at the edge of the stage, Joey Thunder next to her, saying, “Played the hell out of that one.” Wimpy going in search of more beer, cradling his arm from that last dive. Frankie and Joey talking about trying a few of their own tunes, starting the second set with “No Fun City.”
Nothing unusual about the scream of sirens, especially down here. But these grew louder, more than one, stopping right out front.
“Another fuckin’ raid,” Joey said. “Fuckin’ noise complaint or the screws looking for a liquor license.” Frankie and Joey getting up and looking to the front.
Paramedics rushed in with a gurney, pushing through the crowd, two uniforms assisting, ordering people back. More sirens. More cops coming in. Falco’s Nest was being cleared out.
“What the fuck?” Frankie was up, yelling into the mic for the pigs to stop, get the fuck out, anything else she could think of.
One of the uniforms grabbed her off the stage, got her in a fireman’s carry, lugging her out, another cop escorting Joey and Wimpy to the door, the place emptying. Frankie kicking and complaining, didn’t want to leave her Flying V. The cop set her down outside, cuffed her hands behind her back, told her she was under arrest. Frankie yelling, “What the fuck for?” putting up a struggle, eyes searching for Johnny. The cop turned her face-first against the outside wall.
Wimpy and Joey Thunder ended up cuffed next to her along the wall. Then Johnny was pushed out, told to stand next to them, Johnny not wanting to leave the register unattended. The cop turned him and cuffed him, deaf to his protests.
Falco’s Nest was cleared out, two uniforms standing by the door, another putting up perimeter tape, others keeping the crowd back, waving drivers along East Hastings who were slowing to have a look. Red and blue lights flashing.
People outside the Buddha were coming down for a look, everybody crowding the sidewalk and street, wanting to know what was going on. Paramedics had come out with gurneys, two bodies under sheets, the ambulances driving away. Cops dispersing the crowd, not saying what was happening. A news van pulled up, a reporter and his camera man, microphones and cameras, the two of them getting as far as the yellow tape.
Cops were taking statements, asking for witnesses. The guy with the mohawk giving an account of what he saw in the can. The chick with the bleached hair stood near Frankie, crying, saying it was Stain, blood all over him, not sure who else.
Another patrol car screamed along Hastings, coming past Woodward’s, then a paddy wagon. Those along the wall were put in back, the cops not saying more till they got to the station.
. . . SHEETS TO THE WIND
Spitzer was the detective asking questions at the station, sitting her down at his desk, treating her alright, had the uniform take off the cuffs, got her some water and box of tissues. When she stopped crying, Frankie thanked him, pointing to a sign on the washroom door across the hall: Washroom for customers only. Asking Spitzer, “That for real?”
Spitzer smiled. “Naw, one of the guys’s got a sense of humor. Likely got it from some cafe or someplace.”
“Stole it?” Frankie grinned, then asked if it was true, what she heard about the special elevator.
“The what?”
“One you cops used the night they raided the Buddha a couple months back, busting a bunch of punks, anybody else on the street out front. Cops throwing everybody in a paddy wagon.”
“Heard about that, yeah,” Spitzer said. “Punks punching and kicking the panels, spitting through the mesh, calling them pigs.”
“Way I heard it, the cop driving slammed his brakes, doing it over and over, everybody in back got tossed like a salad.”
“Well, you give a cop attitude, it’s what happens, right?” Spitzer said.
“When they got to Main, they got taken up
in the special elevator, some of them beaten.”
“Maybe depends who you hear it from.” He looked at her. Getting around to his questions, Spitzer asked her what went down at Falco’s. Frankie repeating what she already told the uniforms making the arrests, only calmer this time. Not much more she could add, being up on the stage the whole time it went down.
Making a couple of notes, Spitzer pushed the legal pad away and asked her about her music, admitted punk wasn’t really his style, didn’t understand it, saying he was more of a jazz man.
Frankie saying it was his age, Spitzer admitting it was probably true, still he wished her luck with it, heard from some of the kids they dragged in that her band was pretty hot.
“Heard that, really?”
“Yeah, bunch of times.”
“Thanks.”
Looking at her, he shrugged, pushed a business card across the desk, saying, “Anything else you want to tell me . . .”
She hesitated, then told him about Arnie being missing, explaining who he was, that he worked at Falco’s.
“Something to do with this?”
She said she didn’t think so. Spitzer wrote Arnie’s name on the pad, Frankie saying she just had a bad feeling.
“Possible he’s just gone off, you know, three sheets to the wind?”
She shrugged, then smiled and said they don’t call it that anymore.
He tapped the pencil on the business card, saying if Arnie didn’t turn up in a day or so to call him again. Frankie tucked the card in a pocket.
When they were done, he put her and Johnny in the rear seat of his unmarked Ford and drove them back to the club. A uniform stood outside, Falco’s dark and locked up, Waves of Nausea posters in the window, yellow tape across the front.
All the evidence and photos had been taken, so Spitzer let them in, Frankie getting her guitar and amp. Johnny taking the cash from the register, slipping the Norton from under the rag and dropping it in a pocket when Spitzer wasn’t looking.
. . . PRETTY VACANT
Watching her from the sofa, Rita bit her tongue, knowing she’d just sound like a mom again. Rita just glad there weren’t any obstruction or resisting charges laid.
“God, one minute I’m playing, then . . .” Frankie blowing her nose into the tissue.
Getting up, Rita went and put her arms around her.
“My buddy Stain . . .”
“I know.” Rita hugged her.
“They closed Johnny down. Like it’s his fault.”
Rita holding her close, thinking Frankie could’ve ended up with a different kind of record, this girl who used to get straight A’s.
The knock at the door had them both jumping. Rita going to it, expecting another cop with questions. Frankie getting up, too, smoothing her T-shirt, she didn’t care about the eyeliner tears that had run like a river.
Rita opened it, Johnny Falco standing there. She let him in, closing the door behind him.
Frankie going to him, putting her arms around him, saying, “Sorry, I look like hell.” Kissing him.
“You want coffee?” Rita said, going to the kitchen.
“Not if it’s any trouble,” he said.
Rita reached for the can of Maxwell House. Coffee you can count on. Then she reached into the freezer and took out a new bottle of Absolut.
Frankie held onto him, then went to the bathroom to fix her face. Rita asking him in the kitchen what happened. Johnny telling what he knew, pretty much the way Frankie had told it. Same way it had appeared on the evening news. Stain had been shot dead. Zeke Chamas, with a dozen stab wounds to the abdomen and chest, bled out before the paramedics rushed him to Van General. Cops calling it a drug deal gone sideways. No sign of Monk, the news calling him Caleb Haller. The cops putting out an APB. “Top it all, they shut me down.”
“They say for how long?”
“Cops want to make it permanent, think it’ll happen this time.”
Frankie came back, the black gone from her face. “They can’t do that.”
“Yeah, they can. Got a stack of violations. Way the cop put it, they’re stamping out a fad,” Johnny said. “Cop said the Buddha’s next.”
Rita went about fixing the coffee, seeing this guy was just wrong for her niece. Frankie always latching on to the wrong guys, Rita knowing how it would end, same way it always did. Rita asking him, “How you take it again?”
“Black’s good, thanks,” Johnny said, sensing her aunt’s mood.
Frankie got the mugs down, thinking it was time to move on, get out of Rita’s hair. She’d call Joey Thunder and talk about cutting the EP stateside. Get a hold of Swinson, the promoter down in Long Beach.
Another knock at the door, Frankie with her heart in her throat.
Rita went to the door, eye to the peephole. Another cop, this one with a badge on his belt and wearing a suit.
It was Detective Spitzer, saying he had a couple more questions, saying if Frankie was up for it, not looking surprised to see Johnny here. Rita asking if he wanted coffee.
Asking about Zeke Chamas, rumored to work for Marty Sayles. Asked about an incident at the club the other night, an altercation between Frankie and Sayles.
“Just a misunderstanding, nothing really,” Frankie said.
“Okay, anything you can tell me about the Hellrazors?”
Frankie saying she knew it was a bike gang, knew Stain and Monk rode with them, but not much else.
Spitzer had a couple more questions, drinking the coffee Rita fixed him. With nothing to add to his notes, he asked if she’d heard from her friend, Arnie, the one she said was missing, one who worked for Johnny, looking at Johnny when he asked.
“No, not yet,” she said, couldn’t help glancing over at Johnny. Hadn’t told him she had mentioned it to Spitzer.
“Could be on a bender, wouldn’t be the first time. I don’t know,” Johnny said, “but, I got a question.”
“Shoot.”
“About reopening my club.”
Making it sound sympathetic, Spitzer said it didn’t look good. Scene of a murder and all. “Top of that, serving liquor to minors, doing it on an expired license. The place packed beyond capacity. A dozen noise complaints since you opened. You want me to go on?” Spitzer said, giving him that what-did-you-expect look.
“Don’t need to,” Johnny said. “I get the picture.”
. . . LAST TORONADO
The two of them sat in her Karmann Ghia, the heater on full, Frankie pushed in the lighter, waited for it to pop, dropping the last chunk of the black hash. Taking a toke, she offered it to Johnny, saying she was going down the coast. Not going to rob Marty Sayles.
Johnny didn’t say anything, taking a toke.
“It’s not going to fix anything.”
Johnny shrugged, then they sat quiet, both looking across Hastings at his club, locked up with the crime scene tape across the front. Closed till further notice taped to the door.
A uniform stood by his patrol car, a tow truck driver hooking up Zeke’s Nova out front, hauling it away to impound.
“These guys aren’t playing,” Frankie said, watching the cop get in his patrol car and drive off, “in case you haven’t noticed.”
Johnny nodded, thinking he’d do it alone, leave her out of it.
Then the Toronado pulled up, Marty Sayles and the blonde looking in at them. Marty pulled up, backing to the curb in front of them.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Frankie reached for the ignition, wanting to get out of there.
“Hold on.” Johnny stopped her hand.
Stepping out in a camel-colored trench coat, Marty looked across at the yellow tape out front of Falco’s Nest, smiling as he came around the back of his ride, sniffing like he had a cold.
“Keep her running,” Johnny said, getting out and walking around the front, blocking M
arty’s path. Saying, “Get to drive yourself now, huh, Marty?”
“Unless you got my rent money, how about you shut the fuck up, get out of my way? Her I want to see, not you.”
“But it’s me you’re going to talk to.”
“That right, huh? Tell you what, clear your shit out, you’re done here. How’s that? Now we done talking?” Marty sniffed and went to pass him.
Hooking his sleeve, Johnny spun him around, starting to say, “Got nobody backing your —”
Getting enough hip into the punch, Marty let it fly, putting Johnny down. Shaking out his hand, saying, “You need, I can tell you some more.”
Another patrol car drove along, the two uniforms seeing it was Falco on the ground, both of them smiling, seeing no crime in letting the guy in the coat hit him, the cops driving on. The sign on Falco’s door meant they wouldn’t get another chance to toss a wino through his door, tell him they were cleaning up the Eastside.
Frankie was out of her car, her bag in her hand, calling the cops assholes, throwing them a finger. Tugging up her jacket, she stepped forward, setting her bag on the hood, saying to Marty, “You’re really some kind of asshole, you know it, Marty?”
Sally, the blonde, got out of the Toronado, recognizing the bitch who knocked her out in Falco’s can, the one to blame for the stitches in her head. Sally wanting some payback.
“Not the way I’d play it,” Marty said to Frankie, sniffing, catching hold of Sally, keeping her back, the girl giving Frankie some mad-dog looks.
“Sorry about what happened to Zeke and the other guy, but you and me need to talk,” Marty said.
“Yeah, you got an opening, huh?”
“Ought to hear me out.”
“Yeah, the three of us sitting down, you, me and her, having a chat,” Frankie said, glaring at Sally.
“Got things to work out,” Marty said, watching Johnny getting up.
“You promised me,” Sally whined, tugging to free her arm.
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